The gold is shining

more and more, and so brightly --


that it catches fire.

The grand parade is

over, and never over:


unforgettable.

Stamps on the pages

of the letter to my dad:


Not To Be Censored.

At the bench, just before
we get there, he reaches
for the ground

and sits down
but he doesn't seem to know how
he doesn't seem to be well, I wait

A municipal man comes
to see and he calls for help, sirens
My companion is carefully laid down

A woman presses her arms
around me and holds me
caressing me

Others are watching
tirelessly his chest rises
after every push, another push

I'm still not allowed
to go to him, I'm waiting
it can't be right

that he stays down
that he is not on the bench
that he doesn't talk to me

Waiting is living

half, putting deeds off, looking --


in front of oneself.

The jinns: a cloud cuts

through the moon and through the eye --


that looks at the moon.

Better not to count

on society or God --


Provide for supplies.