Some dreams are like glass



or a light beneath the surface of the water.







A girl weeps in a garden.



A woman turns her head and that is all.







We wake up a hundred times and



don't know where we are. Asleep







at the wheel. Saved by



the luck of angels.







Everyone touching his lips



to something larger, the watermark







of some great sorrow. Everyone



giving himself away. The way







the rose gives up the stem and



floats completely, without history.







In the end every road leads



to water. What is left of a garden







is the dream, an alphabet of longing.



The shadow of the girl. Perfume.





