Wild strawberry had been rising from rocky places.
On the street small boys in red.
Above them on poles some crows.
a hundred times.
Failed to joy, I fell
a year. No one saw my blurs and constellations.
A swirl of streets slurred to summer rain.
How many slants of light
in the intimate alphabet? I knew them all.
two chairs and thirsty people, small leftover goals.
My tongue still willing to tongue whatever words.