Distribution Automatique

Tuesday, August 26


"Spoke, spoke.
Was, was."
Paul Celan

The real is impenetrable.
Every day we accept the given reports.
Sun, gray skies, rain.
In back of the house the metal swing is rusting.
The day is so hot nothing moves.
Even time doesn't move.
Escape the official remarks and expressions.
Into what? Green? Or eyes?
Words don't welcome, but they are warm,
Warmer than voices. The whole extent.
The whole object or memory.
Contrivance: echoes.
Universe: all bare.
Wonders: caring.