somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond 

any experience,your eyes have their silence: 

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, 

or which i cannot touch because they are too near 

your slightest look will easily unclose me 

though i have closed myself as fingers, 

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens 

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose 

or if your wish be to close me, i and 

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, 

as when the heart of this flower imagines 

the snow carefully everywhere descending; 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals 

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture 

compels me with the color of its countries, 

rendering death and forever with each breathing 


(i do not know what it is about you that closes 

and opens;only something in me understands 

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)



Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

A quote

March 5, 2008

The tragedy of love is indifference.