he came, at last, to my hope.
around his eyes, brief, infinite,
knowing nothing.
it is agile and clean like the
tender wind of the early morning,
cheerful and soft and deep as
grass under water.
he gets sad sometimes
with that mural sadness
that makes quick idols on his face
and draws worried ghosts.

i think it’s like a little girl
asking an old lady things,
like a giddy donkey
entering a city,
full of straw.
he also has a mature woman
who suddenly frightens his gaze
and moves inside him and
bites his insides with tears.