two warm grains in the eyes of the titmouse
we stretch our hands and flap-flap: is gone
the branch shivers
in its place

that is for shure why
I’m building my afterlife before
my branch shivers too
but I am home I am always here
dressed just in myself like the sword of Toledo

although it’s almost september with fruits gone to warmer countries

I think I’ll take autumn and throw it to the ground
and then I’ll pretend to vegetate

of course

I’ll be watching