The house with the swing was gray. It had once been yellow, but no one remembers that anymore. The swing remains the same, and the tree that holds it has stretched its roots through the garden for at least five generations. Today, the house was ripped from the earth. It screamed. The tree, mute from birth, shook its dry leaves in protest.
Our love On the verge of sinking into the shadow of what I write. Clear statues, moonlit words, Bare ships on the bulkheads of kisses, Howls from the lighthouse guiding us to the salt of ***. Our tide was brief.
She, petal by petal, On the ground, in the sky of her mouth, in the breath of the earth. She was sublime, recited by Virgil or Solon, In every stanza, a ship crosses me, ablaze, heading to her. She sleeps, and I, at her feet.
He, who climbs the stairs around the stars. I once heard him sob a song of the earth, back when animals had not yet invented the final sacrifices, nor had the night turned the day into its opposite.
Immolated hands close sunflowers. The restless sea echoes where pain is most dreadful. Pain exists and resists the fight we put up against it. The pain that never sleeps is terrible. It dances with us all night like a wolf. Like a pack of wolves. We hold each other tight to avoid losing ourselves in it.