One morning

I put a coffee bean in the tip of my tongue

to dissolve it with patience.

There are images crawled,

bits of uneasy memory.

I go to my garden. I take off my shoes.

I walk on the grass and with the little salt

who brings the sea wind purify my wounds.

A stroke of honey coming from the bushes.

Insects celebrate their precarious presence

under the summer sun while I practice

sonambulisms of reality as restarting

e  v  e  r  y  t  h  i  n  g

as returning to the past.


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