Stolen library books are stuffed with the words never ready for divination
With deafening reptilian noise of long sentences only humans would care to read
It is a wail of an unplucked flower on the verge of an unfinished sky
A forgotten wave of the harvest of a year broken with pacified mouths



A goddess opens a blank book
And points at some place I can barely see.
Gods don’t bother about books at all. They are busy
Disconnecting telephone lines and sucking up
TV images. The earth can’t hold my footprints
Anymore, but the walls are good for walking across.
Elderly couples spend evenings
Interpreting chairs and floor lamps in vain, contemplating
Greasy spots on the family bibles, watching
The museums burn, watching pineapples
And watermelons explode over the roofs.