I wish a sudden wind wakes
not for the mills turn
not for compasses,
not for my chance,
not for Igor returns
A wind wakes
from the letter that I opened
from the darkness that I eloped
A wind, from the half open drawer in which
socks without a pair rotten,
a wind, from the pages of the book
that I forgot I have written
A wind
which thinks
morning mist
is the soul of the horses
A wind
consecutively writing letters to the rain
about virtual webs
A wind, that wakes and says
there are some stars in the sky
only both of us can see
They are exactly seven pieces if we do count Igor too
A wind, which
irons my seven buttoned shirts
cooks me seven spiced soups,
covers me
when I kick the blanket,
sharpens the razor seven times
shining in the bathroom.
I wish a sudden wind wakes
not for the mills turn,
but may the mills turn,
birds over my head turn,
words running away from me,
return and turn out again
with my command
I could accept easier
some things never return.