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.
* * *