Lays Down

so often
told you, am
just that presence being rained on

I felt so happy when I opened my umbrella this morning
to that newspaper ink smell
layered in the trenches
at the far ends of my hands

leaps 
from crying closed insides

into the curves of falling dots
onto puddles I am
scribbling
just by looking at the shadows
hanging underneath.

to their heads, rushes
to consider whether
to miss life's buses.

Today

And I

Feathered beings, we're.

On Returning

stretches of time 
fireplaced by the armchairs
of reminiscing;

those are more than people
sitting there
with their half-filled plates,
cocoa and beer

those are rockfaces
lapped by brain waves
and their sure survival
depends

on returning

Sucursala

traveling with the circus
offers new ways to measure
centimetres between thought-outs and
the colourings of my heart pencil;
the territory of pines
is one from one side of the train tracks,
then when the train passes again
it blooms into a forest of possibilities

i come to discover
each place is a local branch of life,
and banking with each account
is something that cares for something

i was asked to put my money back into
the roots where i was born,
so as to stop the rotting and the felling
of possibilities
but that's not what is happening.

instead
canopies are crowding in eyes
seeing rivers as snakes
clouds as dust-trails of great migrations
trains as neuron signals
humans as sieves through which
black watermelon seeds don't pass

but rain does,
slowly :

permeate

walls dampen to the touch
and it makes people cold,
scarves and gloves colder

all the while the train shakes through the forest inside
this is that so-globe
and brings me back to where i left off
with an extra ring drawn 
right in my centre.

1,5

traced by a finger on a bedroom wall
listening to an othersea ripple inside a piano

a thread from open ceilings
pull down more and more pairs of baby shoes,
dotting the skies at night are
trails of lessons arriving to be born,
the calendar says we've been picking up-tied laces,
wrapping our fingers in them and walking the air.
washing lines have fallen under the light of
so many pairs
that our laundry has heaped onto a comma
between us.
you have to admit though,
it's not the pile it used to be - 
what with all our upgrowing
we've outgrown many of them

a little pause for breathing

1,5
because a full stop doesn't flutter in the wind
coming from the lips of the other earthface,
because it doesn't have a dripping coat
hanging from the line to dry

. . .

ladybug trails ready to evaporate;
behind us is dry and drying concrete,
fields covered in wildly growing grass

ahead, the earth's a roiling something
that we just haven't found yet
that we may need something other than baby shoes
to reach

now, we lift from the comma to each other's eyes
and we see ourselves a little bit floating.