The best shape of a figure is, perhaps, his wheelbarrow.

I touch yours & the shade of the sun at noontide spreads across the field

perhaps, the clinking will change

when it’s close distance;

it’s a jungle between the words.

The injured crocuses cast a warm labyrinth

I post a mirage
& I breathe in your smouldering soul.

Here we steal our sweat & voices

here we unfold wet newspapers showing crayon drawings of communities not filled
with initiates or Illuminati;

I carry a miscreant’s guilty secret away.