are surprised at nothing
the fibrils of the poem
when harvest time comes.      
 
By the light of the gray lamps
he is fashionable
to cut them off.      
 
tender leaves
in fulfillment of a detour of the soul
perspective operates.      
 
sorry to be late
the waves progress
in small swigs of pleasure.      
 
Minimum hollow
without the heart faltering
the rocks are crying.      
 
To hear only the sea
the hands hook the garment
as the hem.      
 
redhead of reason
she allowed the witty woman
to operate permanently.      
 
slender fingers
split the scales
with a gesture of mad love.      
 
Fleurs and water
we are at the top of the promontory
a flock of sparrows.     
 
 
1101