ARE those love poems that do not mention my name?

I often get lost there. Surprised at a word I never knew, what they wanted to say to me.

I often tripped over there. Walking in complicated stanzas, which I did not know was going to take me anywhere.

But I feel at home there. As if hiding from many sounds, which for years forced me to deafen myself.

Ah, what a dictionary you are. How narrow is my tongue. I wonder if those poems you wrote for me?

MAYBE on the lips? Because there I like to interpret bitterness.

Or on the arm? A pair that is not long enough, but enough
to always embrace, dim, nervous.

Or on the neck? The circular ladder, like a rubber tree, and
I was a tapper who could not bring heart to wound there.

Or on the forehead? A thin line of hair, always silent.

"Ah, do not have much guessing," you say, "let me read it,
The old verses of poetry, which I have always kept secret ...

Ticket

IT should have written your name, in that column.
Do I have to care about the name of the city and the airport?

It should have been the reason for my departure:
go home to meet you, for longing. "Repeat the word, completely
which can fit in empty space, on my ticket paper, "

I will say so, to the registrar.

2. Baggage

I WILL not give this to a haphazard officer.

My backpack will just hug me along the flight.
"It's an unfinished longing, longing to worry me.
There are many who are not caught. It's an incomplete longing, "
I will say so, when I get back to you.

I'm not going to let what is tightness scattered carelessly.


3. Waiting Room

I AM worried about you. The airport in this country is not fair.
There is never a good waiting room for pickup.

I'm worried about me. This heart's longing is also never fair.
There was never enough waiting time, for a moment to be patient.


4. Emergency Door*

WHY does the stewardess always, like telling anxiously?

I already know very well where and how to open
Four emergency exits, wear safety jackets, put up
And removing seat belts. I've been very anxious ever since
Bought the ticket I mentioned in stanza number one. Tickets are on
there I want to write my own name, flight date and time,
And the reasons why you so badly missed.

I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness

I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning

My love is saltiness in your sea. The sun thinks he can vaporize me from you, making me a cloud in an unfamiliar sky. He was wrong, but let me do it, I do not want to blame him.

My love is the nutrient element fused in your garden's soil. The sun thinks only he who grows you and blossoms your flowers. He was wrong, but I will not blame him.

WE are like a pair of Dictionary Lost lexicographer,
Asked all words, adept at interpreting the Atlantis,
carefully describe the ***** dog and Almighty God.

For a word, we have a long debate,
You want to just forget the word. While
I want that word we describe it, as clearly as possible.

MONTHS are mature, the moon comes, I pluck you, with a doubtful hand and an abundance of anxiety. Night is ripe, night comes.

Moon hungry, wild moon. You make me a bat, take out. I am from the blind stone cave, hunting you. Night hungry, wild night.

The moon is sharp, the moon is deep. I'm a diver fisherman, long sharpening. Spear, on you I shut my eyes-wounded. Night sharp, deep night.