Tiny grains
in quiet contemplation
adrift on suggestions
for fruitful spells,
the crackling torpidity
turned off to wander
with my plumed asters,
which light hand can push
a sour breath
that chimed
laden with dew and camellias,
infinitesimal minutes
close up to savor
rubbing purple flesh
above the indelible
ferruginous bridge.
The thick acrid drizzle
of next flowering
covered glades
where the deeds
soaked in sweat and scream
climbed up,
that beauty
of making love
breathing the broom fields,
barren land dunes and heather,
grain that sparkle above us,
who are waiting for death
backlit
and staying up over the fiery-hot skies,
fireflies
stifled by crystallized hopes.
