You say I’m soft,
that even my words have polished nails.
Then I archly spread my arms to make a bridge,
as if trying to embrace seething trees.
There are dropped faces, you know. Waiting for a voice,
a call, an impulse, to be lifted from behind Venetian masks –
dodging faces. Faces waiting for the summer
and dreaming, when sleeping, about a sound sleep.
You give your friend a compass wishing
him a more pleasant journey, and not
to show him the way.
My journeys are circles of a seeker.
This is why I return evenings to the stories revealing
deep connections and impossible distances.