They say that self consciousness is a shadow life of formulability in a world of signs,
Do you really mean what you say?
Or are you going to start naming things?
You know these types of moments 
evaporate in the telling....
A bird has started a project 
with a dull beak, 
he keeps running errands for the universe
until it notices him.
Two ghosts in a forest 
scare each other,
Why run?
The fields are haunted too....
Everything is haunted, 
A semiotic Eden 
where salient creatures roam the night 
in search of nothing,
or transcendency.
If only you could get out of this place 
and find a new place,
a new refined happiness,
amnesic, arbitrary puzzle pieces,
a creosote to water
of the past.
A star comes to its apogee,
everything the writer puts down is deep,
the terror of words is present,
latent uninvited senseless guests.
In those final gray days 
there will be a snow storm you 
will never dig out of.
The wind never blows for no reason,
it's always carrying something,
the blades of grass are tall
And the pavement cracks
are beautiful tributaries.

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