In the dust of nameless flowers, of the cursive guts of calligraphy bells, What ear can lift silence, from its sleep? The moon, in front of the winter trees, Said, All rivers are habits Swung by gravity, And Each shadow that lifts a finger Baffles an integer. Electric footsteps play the guitar, the wind can hear you, science fiction puddles, the tattoos of whodunit, the spacecraft of deserted trees ravenously beatific. In the prance of a quite walk, the city curls in on itself, till it is gone. I leave foot prints ahead of us, Gaseous clouds Turning star. And give poetry To pigeons.