I feather there
mud here
i mop everything
and later,
gloss
much luster
and hands of lime
until from me
(and of you in this)
not a speck
or a sound
or a scent
stay
of that fire
what was there
in this piece
hidden
from my mind.
On Sundays you talk to the plants,
you clean the leaves with patience
and you throw away the leaves that withered
waiting for me
to open the door
and stop the earth
and tell you let's have tea,
before the Ficus dries.
I just don't like blueberry jam.
nor the way the sun dries me
when i stretch out my hand
and I play
the leaves that fell
while you were talking
weather,
just at the time the bricklayers leave.
Before the storm arrives.