rhapsodic pastoralism
as beguilingly bucolic as tempera gardens,
where nature’s wild beauty
is domesticated and made
into a safe space for dream and play,
reverie and revelry.

with the bright dawn
chatter of birdsong
it seems to reach your ear across distance,
like a girl singing happily to herself
while walking down the road
on the other side of your garden wall.

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

A mountain falls effortlessly into the placid waters
and sees itself clearly
The water accepts the mountain as itself
while maintaining its body

it's got to be the right time
the right one for the
trance of dance
of crying
of love
or prayer
stay awhile to feel
the breath of hours
or the pilgrims breathing
near darkening forests
zebras forgetting their
blackness
the pulse of far riders
blown away
by a mirage caravan

blessed those who
pray for the calmness
of rain

warehouse of time never complete
never emptied
this wave reached me again
this drilling pain around the navel
i don't recognized anything
my nails  my cries my falling into despair
nevertheless it is my flesh - this warehouse
everything comes together  fused
in the flow of the unknown or unthought known
wavelengths chasing each other
the revenge of forgetting or the impossibility of space
something emanates slips away
when there is not enough body of the mind
which is always the case cause gods get tired
is it the heart that is touched first, I don't know
this energy of mystery
it creates new figments of twilight
new shades of falling
if i let it be it tells me this story
tear down the invisible sites of hurt
for the impossibility of touch of sight of speak
the solution is always poetic,
take shelter it says
inside someone's heart eye
inside fluid worlds of wonder

what if
the warehouse of time
is full of weeping eyes
of buried hearts