RETURN

RETURN

 

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.

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