our most frail signals surrender us to movement:
eyes and their gesticulations carry us through foresight and after-sight,
   sometimes the latter, which takes on space yet not so much space,
     and the previously bestowed upon unction that supersedes
       reckless meanings.

    syntactical is the source of rivers,
   concatenation is the body of mountains:

      clocks mean nothing to predate and antedate – now is the time for
            such realizations.

  I do not know what is it with the trees that moves me
  to bend, and I do not know what is it with heads of flowers
   that makes me fall in love repeatedly as if to make no sound as a thief
   is entering the premises, or an unsuspecting cat dropping
    just beside the all-titanium bicycle: desolate, on all-fours, no metamorphosis
   happening, just flagrantly stagnant in form.

I peer out in mornings in search for a curve of a face,
  or a flutter of an eyelid, all but marvelous insofar as they all remind
you of a picture painted somewhere beyond the mausoleum ******* clad
    with pressing scenes but away and moving, always on alteration,
permitting to speak clearly something so breakable and false: a day’s turning into night
                         sheds its skin and now without gleam nor white even, a child smiles
     at me without      teeth.