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.