The world? Moonlit
drops shaken
from the crane's bill.
Dogen (1200-53)

Transpirinenque poem

I have a dry tongue, a revolt of dumb words.
The bright picture awaits me in the clear room of green windows.
I pull myself in the white sheets, because the hours are mine and the ones
brushes lie on the mat.
Plunge into the room and nobody can cull the yellow drops of time.
Only a spoonful of sound spreads cold heures for my breasts and back.
Then I sleep, I speak and I paint.
I dreamed, I call and I draw to the white fabric of the snow.
This is how the gray winds of the ash grows my clothes on the clean bed.
This is how I cover the eyelids in a black stretch that stretches in
a forest of skin.
That's how my hands begin to trace the soft paths below
the golden skies ...
Lost in the fall, we are all foggy people scaring colors at
Nothing, while the time we are schooled and someone takes the landscapes
imagined
In the open, I let you believe that my fingers are scratching lyrics
Purples on the fields where the magical blue birch is born.

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