This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

Poetry has saved me on occasions when people couldn't.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.

Watch, how the sunslowly risesfrom behind my earnew lines, new countriesspring up in my palmsmy rough hairbecome swaying silkand all the leavesin my bodybecome lusher than fruits.

all my lifei have looked for poemsto elope with.

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eye I am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.