busy paper
I wish i could be
the busy paper
of the street to support
the paths that were written for you,
like a dance, a composer
of details i wish i were
a poet for your blink
an architect of arms
designer for your neck.
A glove.
A pen.
Paper that does not burn.
…
Thread
Your hair is a carpet,
a daily labyrinth of thread.
The streets I walk
end up
at the end of day
in a hair
of yours
as if a city of sand
is turned into glass wires
by the fiery lights of
the dusk.
