In a world that has no heaven the earth becomes an abyss.And the poem is one of its consolation prizes.One of the qualities of the winds, north or south

Who am I to say to you what I’m saying?

Everything around me looks like me and I look like nothing here

And writing is not enough for me to declare: I found my presence filling in absenceand whenever I searched for myself I found others and whenever I searched for them I found only myself the stranger Am I a crowd of one?

The poem is in my hands, and can run stories through her hands.

The poem is neither here nor there, and with a girl's breastit can illuminate the nights.With the glow of an apple it fills two bodies with lightand with a gardenia's breath it can revive a homeland!

A small café, that's love.

Life defined only as the opposite of death is not life.