I'm not an architect; when I look at people, I don't see buildings.
I see silence, tempered on the anvils of being,
its weight pressing into the hollows we call our own.
I see the singular line, the sharp curve where each life turns.
I see loneliness—carved so uniquely into each person, like a dialect,
a wound too vast for most to name.
And I see love—the desperate way we hope to find ourselves in another, without hesitation.

and then,
I glide into the cradle of a fruit.
And I sleep under the glow of your lunar breast.

From this descent so deep, I emerge
To the silence of your thigh,
And for the sea storm.

The house no longer knows how to be a house

There is the memory of a table of sand

an old plow turned into a bed

On the wall, like a putrid pigeon,

A blue Christ.

It came with the house,

Speaks with the house,

Endures with the house.

Impenetrable hearts full of silence

In the idea of an inner sleep, it is late on the sea, in the streets, in the houses.

The silence of a house upon the sea, and in the streets, the silence the sea carries in its mouth.

Old ships lost in the ******* of the sea do not return home.

They never pass through the streets where inner hearts move heavily, like the sleep of pachyderms.