If I have been in your town
for some times,
rankled like waves,
out of breath
on the vase of waft,
naked
like your touch,
now I am gone.
If sometimes
hunched like a branch
burdened in its own devotion,
then exposed
pendent from the incantation of autumn,
holding on to the memory of springs
at list from the chandelier of colours
like the flicking lantern of flower
in the midnight of the soil
like the belfry of Bleeding Heart
in the garden of a song,
like the petals of roses
on the lush branches of blasts,
now I am gone.
If occasionally
a pure feeling like a kiss
became an echo on water
and washed in the acnes of effervescing rain
on my skin
in the belly of the oceans,
