Poetry is just scribbles,
in a mass of words,
Hairs lodged in the throat,
undigested fragments,
that beg to be transcribed.
Lift into light
take off the cloak!
Heavy wool, remove the thick layers,
naked white shoots pushing up.
Whoever thought life existed beneath
all those rotten leaves?
I keep waiting, for the shakedown
When everything will unravel,
and become less complicated.
In the center of all, huge bites are taken out,
The body is injured.
Holes in the fabric of time,
