where the air has no memory
for the mountains to keep growing
I welcome the arrival of the birds,
the promise of fresh myths
the seduction is the constancy of the heartbeat, for me
the intensity of dreams stronger than ever
dreams that willingly transmute themselves  into reality

I welcome those walking the path of love
now that I finally start to see the unseen of the horizon
no more endings confused with beginnings
this is the secret garden where my heart
is growing wiser bolder deeper even more eager
to surrender herself to the sweet craziness of the world
to the thoughtfulness of mornings
anew

this morning when I opened my eyes
the light was breathing the window had a pulse
as if I was a body with unmystified senses
as if I could see deeper in everything that surrounds me
perhaps a remembrance of how
difficult it was for me to be in the world
with an immense sensitivity to the slightest movement of life around me,
how wondeful to attune to the wind, the leaves, the cacophony of beautiful words and deeds, the harmony in the blinking of strangers, the sway of steps on the streets, the collapse of the waveforms of dreams that we called reality
how hard to have a mind that might understand eventually that truth is complicated or not for every creature on the walks of life.
my essence is vulnerability my strenghts is my weakness for my foolishness there is no cure
don't have to look in the mirror to recognize
my human face, your human face, their faces
late in the night when I close my eyes I see only people, the beauty of the world, the cosmos created through pain, how
the morning of the day I was born was there, and everything was already breathing before me and everything will be still spinning its mystery when this excess of life will rob a last breath from me. I know I will be watching the breath of light, how everything gets illuminated when the time is ripe

so long  so painful this journey
to surrender myself anew like a bud full of tension
recognize you, reinvent the rituals of sensing
I weep in front of the threshold of spring  
between eros and thanatos an excessive tenderness
I am well prepaired for the erosion of time in my hair
poetry and reality facing each other in my hands
I do not hope do not despair do not wait for grapes to wonder
it's just the taste of it,  the feel of it, this quality of the infinite
that makes me look at you with androgynous complicity

a visceral transparency possesses me
when I face you ferociously gentle
I almost see, my reflection passes efortlessly
through you, I say my hello, mostly genuine
hello, will you stop me from dream thinking
so cruel to observe the still waters knowing all that I know
almost dreamed I was caressing your lips
almost forget you untouched under the eyelids

no deja vu, busy to catch the bus to mercy street
I almost pass by you on the street with my hands
seeing forward

your eyes hot like a bullet
mine engulfed by the equinox &
the silences I walked away from
we are two or more
two people who shout at each other letters
that have never touched any alphabet
who throw beautiful ideas to be caught by twilight
the hour is always unknown
as if we watch each other's destiny
what comes next only the oracle of Delphi knows
or the roots of entropy maybe
I keep some thoughts in the straitjacket

we guard bridges, ancient castles in the sky
we guard the world not to turn into a casket without music
who invented this question mark
that we owe each other happiness
I wonder if the trees have unspoken meanings
do they turn overnight into telescopes to quest
the loneliness of stars, as we do

I might turn into a shadow
blinded by darkness
we draw uncanny shapes,
everything a circle can endure
with our mouths full of pebbles

by Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;   
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,   
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!   
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.   
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,   
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,   
And in broad day the midnight come again!   
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,   
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.   
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,   
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.   
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,   
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

“when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.” Grace Paley

fall into me
on blackout days
for something beautiful
is here is everywhere
is nowhere
you knew it
Borges used it
beauty is a physical sensation
the axis mundi piercing
the palms of my hands

memory like a gipsy woman
who reads palms
beauty, yes, it draws the soul
ascetic
I figured it out in the smiling of your sleep
like babies smile to angels, they say
this game that keeps us alive is hers
golden beetles die for it
of for the love of dust

pastimes of gods its archives
everyday the light tastes differently
the body moves where the mind is
or the other way round
I'll read Cartarescu to you half naked
one page a day

beauty is the quest,
this spiral of wonder
filling up the rest &
my nails

someday I will live on a water,
it will love me
I will spend my days discovering it’s mysteries
spinning them into fantastic tales,
cinematic grays of storm,
kaleidoscope colors of dragonfly spring

I will live in the cocoon of its beauty,
in the folding space of beings from every world
I will story the breath of pirouettes,
the creation waves of slumber
finding uncommon lives
woven through fertile riparian fabrics  

the water will know me as no human could
it will absorb me into it’s rhythm
I will disappear from causation
cherished and protected the remainder of my days
I, devoted witness and biographer to a landscape

i close my eyes
to see you i close my eyes,
the world suddenly is leaving
entirely
is leaving, of its  own accord, is leaving,
    is falling like an eyelid, tired
on the keys of a piano, the stillness of the morning covers us,  white
white,
bleached by the winter, waiting for the pious sound,
waiting
for the snowdrops to bloom

words already written somewhere
in the syntax of time
some waiting to be revealed
expelled through themselves
you
waiting to be caught falling back
into the great wide narrow
open
life gets unbearable
if you feel it en detail
the naked devil in the details
yeah yeah yeah
you are
on the quest for a nymph of the lungs
a never envisioned bride with a maybe smile
moaning melissas not monalisas
softnes curves textures and forgetting
like a work of art
blank canvas for your might in delight
you are also looking for that pain
again and again
more view in between your shoulders
she did it and maybe they subtly pay
the paradox of a black hole
our hearts
fancy yourself
you invent the feminine itself
on the edge of self-combustion
the feast of an unknown body
till you turn into yourself again
and into wildflowers
they taste the magnetic field
its scorch its bustling to give and receive
who gives who receives
the earth wonders

there is earth  in our bones

everyhing has its nemesis
dont't worry
I'll bathe you in my tears
still
I'm writing this poem
with/for a smile
in all fairness

the woodpacker came today
its flight filled with bliss
it flies like a deer
******* in
its desire

each morning bird watching
is a silent meditation
I have pigeons sparrows seagulls
megpies in my gaze
their delight of falling
makes me smile
I watch them teaching their wings
for each day
picking up the debris of sleep
spinning around each other
they start cheerful conversations
about the taste of the air
steal crumbs of wonder
from each other
a woodpacker comes
from time to time
its red stain is fun
none of them travel to you
they get round and round
wayching out
their own flight

Condescending to humor my intimate muse,
You sought out her words in my writing.
I couldn't have guessed that you'd actually choose,
To tell her what you think is the source that I'm citing.

Get over yourselves, the drama and strife,
I can tell you’ve found something you wanted to see.
And, of course, held it up to the shape of your life,
And think you see secrets you once shared with me.

Forgive my intrusion throughout that December,
If that friendship seemed somehow untrue,
I won't try to persuade you, but you ought to remember,
Sometimes, unbelievably, it's not about you.

My task is obsessive, compulsion, expression,
I write the universal, the aggregate whole.
Never to betray or teach some grand lesson,
I’d rather enrich than to harm a good soul.

Emotions exposed and stories delivered may wound or dignify,
My job is to make it have life and clarity;
Give it weight enough to signify.

And, as then, when we meet,
Sour or sweet, 
Speaking our truth,
Silent secrets,
and feel…
The words that can wound,
Flatter,
Heal or conceal...
All of them wind to what our actions reveal.