As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.

I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.

The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight