Could you please come?
-and relax with the stars
lost with me in the forests.
Stand to enjoy a ruminant in the pasture.
Make a promise of a himeneo,
widened shelter, desecrating
the corners of the house with puffs.
Without citing anyone, nobody.
Barks the bark in the window and it’s not that bad.
The closer they come, the gulls in the Potomac River,
more and more they stay stepping on the frozen river,
the cold pastime of those who leave their gaze fixed,
the birds are undaunted.
I write, I write for love.
It’s better to run around Rock Creek Park,
feel the sun at noon, sun and sun.
A poem, a fluxion
in my body, a wild hunt.
If all this is absurd to you, then it is fervent
and almost eloquent, because where there is a head
there is another
high tide of chills. Come back and tell me what rhymes
with all the fleeting day: Iceland, or encyclopedia?
Not counting the days in the hands and little resist
the wings of dawn,
very few mirrors, very few.
A small count of things.
This can be true,