Dying of poetry is a mellow death,
It is cunnilingus for the mind
Windfallen to the pavement like a peach
There to deliquesce in the rain and sun.
Now the whole thing has turned a dark burgundy
With a lake of fuchsia at the bottom
We live now in the caves of the sun
Something very old which I do not understand
You walk in the darkness of your head
These are the last words you remember
Some people take the shapes of others
Petunias are not tumors
Imagine something other than language.
In the first stages of becoming a zero
You may experience a sensation of perfectibility.
This is normal. What is written and what is not
The other infinity the one inside a thought
Fill up the spaces of your speech.
Fill up the spaces of your speech.
A whole continent of love and fresh towels awaits you.
We are all having a snack on the beach.
