I repeat the inexorable sagacity of the psalms
and I love the open gates in the face of the water’s strength
I try to understand my time
and the weightless intent of the poem
I have no other eyes or hands
you no longer show me the images
but I can see the ivies shaping their sombre
lips through interjection and breadth
I am just a throbbing mouth
a troubled volcano ground
water’s incessant countenance
before the doors I repeat
the tropes the audible readability of the place
I know that someone is always waiting
for the mature fruit
on the eve of the hand murky water
to the waist
I know that someone is always waiting
as if waiting
holding the glaive
for the windows to blossom
I know someone is always waiting for a poem