Parading

Poetry is not made of words.

All roads lead to the kitchen.

At most he thinks or twitters softly, “Safe!

The number / of hours

I read a book written by a dove. Great! I slept

look / the other way,

Every color has been arranged

I pay out now, behind, like rope, these random days

not aware yet of what I will become

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,