THE HUNTER AND HIS HOUNDS WHEN THEY TAKE THEIR REST IN THE SHRINES

The tired ones go to rest on Syriac’s fragments

trying to get some sleep

they set out in pilgrimage through the world collecting pebbles

in search of decent shade

a good woman

a laconic poet, a prophet of whales,

unemployed

before he’s hungry

an ephemeral shelter sighted among rosebushes

with a book on migration on his shoulders

he is the first to leave

scattered letters reveal themselves one afternoon

in his mind

they turn into larvae

and dust

given to the miraculous tumors

extracted from trees

live gills used in writing

lyrics chewing on trees which unsettle us

sold in its lyric-wrapper this painkiller

this poem

give me

stones or the flesh of dates

fast food swirling in the stomach of those trained

to remember well

which harms us

we step away from training paths

we are no longer summer’s leisure

serving a pleasant poet

on break from negotiations at the hour

of free admission

the last of the overgrown almond trees

the girls flitting there

expert beaks first start scraping

at my hands which time has cracked open

under a well-lit frame you awaken with a stroke

we adjust our lenses, the leaves used for our pain, aiming with my cell phone

against the carelessness of guards I fire between your eyes

you are in my network

And now you are not

and you turn me into a literary journalist

posting with fury

like religious tourists who make the stones speak

while strengthening their legs and the muscle of faith

topical is the healthy experience of the diverse

fawning over portals, confessionals

the closest utopia

of manners and faces and culinary habits

the dogma of the Virgin Odigitria or iconoclastic persecutions

our device receives blank messages

and also

exhausts you