I lift syllables to plant
They will ripen in your mind
Like wheat of the ancient fields
Where our ancestors ate language
And leisure, like we have never known
We who labour like machines
As slaves might, while our lives
Is as a poem where the trees incandescent
Must watch themselves wither
As sheets of paper gone to waste
I lift houses of sound
To your legendary fracture of silence
These vacant lots of night-time
Where a pale puddle of your
Grip upon reality suddenly blazes
With figures of your once dreams
The summer has oxidized mornings, sunsets
A weightless winter awaits, as scattered
Pages are left to turn, each one
Words in the shape of a cloud of dust
As white as snow, as lingering
As the cold, and the murmur of a million
Leaves that once were, but are now only
The idea of color, the texture of earth.