The ox eats the grass
And we eat the ox. God had no
Imagination.

Wash, rinse, shake
the sand. Finally, in the sieve
A nugget remains

In the white snow
The rigid blue stain
Of the dead bird.

A crystal glass
on the table
invents all the colors of the rainbow . . .

On the desert road,
a simple fall of leaves
broke the silence.

Echo of thunder:
The downpour, suddenly,
brings the river up

In his tiny cell
he contemplated, pensively,
the flight of the fly

Moonlight in the fog.
Inside the dark hut
The creak of hammocks

The light without pomp
languishes. The last swallow
crosses the afternoon sky . . .

Peaceful afternoon, the trees
calm: they expect us to walk
quietly among them.

look,
between one raindrop and another
the rain doesn´t wet

Night of spawning.
The indiscreet moon shows
the route of the shoal

Between your sky
and mine
a soft whisper of wings

A red traffic light
Fire and lipstick
Your mouth in the mirror

In the light of the bonfire
an old man loses his wrinkles
as he tells his stories.

Night vigil—
The dog’s eyes shine
by the fire

The sparrow
hides from the cold
in the scarecrow’s pocket

Bamboo stalk:
a guitar that cries
in the wind

Suddenly—
thunder awakens fears
of my childhood.

Creaking wheels—
It´s lost in the fog
the ox wagon

tea ceremony
three guests
and one mosquito

Clothes hung up—
the flash of lightning
whitens the clothes line.

a gentle breeze
the soap bubble takes
colors from the garden

Cold morning.
If I were a boy I’d write
My name on the glass.

orange harvest
the passing train takes
the sweet scent

white lily—
the first communion
of a shy boy.

The afternoon dissolves
in the shout of macaws
and in flakes of lead

musical agenda
gasping swallows
land briefly

Lively conversation . . .
On the porch, two beggars
under blankets.

long conversation
one cricket stops
another starts

Autumn moon—
The sleeping drunk in the park
is illuminated