You are here
Sinking in the grass
the threat of beauty,
pregnant with stones,
reeking of
sand and unlit flames.
The sun trembles with
night. The moon climbs
over its skin:
its silent face is open.
Where is the creator?
On a path of glory, green
with voices,
dead with electric water.
Behold a peaceful empire,
where stretches of infinity
appear like a population of
eyes in the unbolted hand.
