Uploaded September 2025 | Updated September 2026, 1 week ago

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Now
it is shame that kernels
on the blond heads of children’s stalks.

From the meadow
a blindfolded scent of lilac from the meadow
turns our tiny sun.

Spilling over from houses, from terraces
it comes and settles in my voice.

The flexible hemlock of my voice
the speckled hemlock of my voice.

And towards the birds
ivory: the manner of the wind.
Mountain: skeleton of the sun.

Among the wooden statues
the young of the sea, enormous.

I see blood I see stone
among all the statues
nightmare warm novice

the milky fig of insomnia -
does not seep into the hives.

My mother died when I was very small
kiss me, then give birth to me.