Parading

you make poetry out of it

and somehow honey   dripping down

The sky is listening; the sky is as hopeful

It has no knowledge except of nothingness

‘s not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies

postbox for the inner ear. Tarantula’s footstep,

Y ¿quién prueba mi paciencia?

you will not be able to keep it

Take a clock that has lost its hands

taking in the storm,