And sinks like a blind fish to the bottom of the bathtub.

when you’re talking about a pair of wool
in the dead of winter.
shudder or note,
a single seed:
i am made of earth and my song is made of words.
a pair
of scissors.

lost scent
of tea, of jasmine and of dreams,
that scent of wandering spring.
will shed light where once was darkness
shining on plates spread all over the table
like contented flowers.
sacred bowl,
moonlight precise within its halo,
rounded beauty of a diadem.


Of soap

to take a closer look,

of socks

that she knit with her


when i was young

looking like

birds, or

now a worn

sewing box,

by man’s

most ancient hand,

most vital disk,

planet and planetarium:

in your likeness

and image:

of my praise

i want to fill

from flour,


put on its warrior suit

and straightbacked, built

your beauty assembled

petal by petal

tomatoes everywhere,

in summer.


is the world’s