Chronicles of a forsaken patch

They took so much and left us
this and that, you tell me once
again, as if I haven't heard you
once before telling me of what was taken

amid sunrise, that they have taken
all the stones, willing to build new houses
out of our old bones
but stop, they saved us water

for a time long enough to balance
the intake of oxygen and the separation
into drops, this is what they first intended
to build canals out of land patches

and praise, they took this and that
more fruits for the cultivation of jam
to make extra sugar, red strawberries
milked out of our blood

they take this and that, you tell me again
the river, the countryside, our patch
of land and sing once more: this is my land
and yours, free to the seer

but be, you said despite this and that
travel with nothing more than your clothes
upon your back, like a nomad
but never leave, be back to demand,
the land where you stand.

To the highlands one October day

There walks a stranger in every corner
yet here I am, out of origin
a fish out of its tank
these are floods, the city streets
and trams, and castles and armies
I back my hand onto a wall, brush my fingertips
onto a skirt.The highland sounds,
deafening my ears, sheep, bagpipe,
human laughter.

Enough

There are enough hands to paint
with lose brushes the edges of this world
but not mine, unintended for the dab of color

enough is left for the mornings
grey with silhouettes
and soft-spoken sunshine

 I do not dwell in the houses
where the roofs are stuck to the floor
with haughtiness around the corners

like spiderwebs, chronicled
for the missing moments I avoid
when I am not looking

you hire my hand, for today's dish
for tomorrow's wish
a clean stove, baked bread

I result from the ingredients
I give, salt for the completion of wounds
and anger for the sandpits of childhood

here, it is quiet, under the blankets of my room
I sip in air conjured of too much fairy dust
and a little hint of carelessness

breathing in the night,
I sit and attend to the watch
of things moving, still

There are enough syllables in the language
but mine are reserved, for after the speech
before the script

Permission

You permit what you cannot stop
the rolling of a ball in the mud
the bleak rain as it drops
high from earth
to thud and make thick
soft, chipped-earth.

Address change

New letter arrives today
stamped from a piece of earth
sealed inside with three papers
and a new address, you have left
the old self at the red-chipped kitchen
and moved to places where roofs are covered
by my new letters.

Half

Half a century in trial
and the other in error
and we have not been able
to learn that the more we
try, the more mistakes
we will make

Half a century and all we do is defer
dreams and delete realities
it is easy to eradicate half the planet
by a click of a button

Half a century passes like a year is not
of great measure in the number of days
passed in trial, flavored in error
half this time we spend building
the other half we regret
the reason why the buildings slant,
without specific purposes.

Windows, lights

 Don't hold me, perfect. I might break

like that, the broken window allows

enough light for us to see

and extra night blankets for us to sleep

Tireless from too many stones

packed under our heads.