Sometimes A Piece Of Sun Burned Like

We Must Dream Our Way.

I Say Love, And The World Populates Itself With Doves.

You Know How This Is: If I Look At The Crystal Moon, At The Red Branch Of The Slow Autumn At My Window, If I Touch Near The Fire The Impalpable Ash Or The Wrinkled Body Of The Log, Everything Carries Me To You, As If Everything That Exists, Aromas, Light, Metals, Were Little Boats That Sail Toward Those Isles Of Yours That Wait For Me.

Poetry Arrived In Search Of Me. I Don't Know, I Don't Know Where It Came From, From Winter Or A River. I Don't Know How Or When.

Then Scale By Scale, We Strip Off The Delicacy And Eat The Peaceful Mush Of Its Green Heart.