The things I name in poetry are not noble:
they lie under the palate, watchful, aware only of the warmth
ignorant of the tongue.
If they listen, they hear the motion, the wave of an echo
that brings red letters, destinies, and a whirlwind of voices
lost - as always - in what is dark and hollow.
So, I again say: trees - in fact - plane-trees
attracted by water and supported at the edges by rocks.
This indeed is difficult: to softly sing their miracle
that weight in the light, that shadow
that crosses with time and bursts out over the smell of the lea.

All is body that the soul reaches late
but autumn flashes in a little corner
and the word forms
with the prescribed rhythm: in clots, in gaps,
in starts, within the centuries.
And it is not music you speak of, but a thunder of silverware,
of hail pelting the walls