There is incessant chatter inside
Looking glass where the tenants
Paint used tea bags day and night
And collect the canes of the blind
I know I am a poison I stay
Away from insects and weeds
I have already fed all my skylights to the angels



Like flowers that grow in
antediluvian toilet bowls. This is the music of
refrigerators and banned sculptures,
cut fingers and the tongues of the cats
mummified in Bubastis, multicolored pieces of water
running along the pipes. It is
a real problem to love your
mother tongue. Flowers swing, but
they don’t hear the words.

new bubastis

Who can tell how fast air and water digest
everything inside? They call it conservation
of inconvenience
. Every birthplace
is someone’s grave, they say. Look at the
feline deities. They are as tall and shiny
as possible. They always leave
their fingers in the gloves, brains
in the mortarboards. They hate caves,
trapping pits and wombs. Foreign words
bring them pure amusement unspoilt by understanding.
But then again, which of the languages they use
isn’t really foreign? Poems for ancient bacteria to imbibe
are unsound like sequences of pinpoint winds.