PERFECTION IS BORN

I want someone to tell me

about the messages in the water in our bodies,

about yesterday’s air

in telephone booths,

about flights postponed because of

poor visibility, despite

all the invisible angels on the calendars.

The fan that weeps for tropical winds,

the incense that smells best

as it vanishes – I want someone to tell me about these things.

I believe that when perfection is born

all forms and truths

crack like eggshells.

Only the sigh of gentle partings

can tear a cobweb apart

and the perfection of imagined lands

can postpone the secret

migration of souls.

And what can I do with my imperfect body：

I go and I return, go and return

like a plastic sandal on the waves

by the shore.