I must return to the world of words,
where strange syllables sit on bales of straw
and metaphors lurk like luminous
and dangerous mushrooms.
It’s nearly always twilight there, or if not,
the sun illumines every edge
or the moon makes magical shadows.
Or it’s raining (especially on the quiet streets).
Everyone I meet has a lesson to teach:
old lovers regret, children are wise,
strangers hand me emeralds or bread.
My mother has nothing to say.