






Mud and Fishing
Extrait de Parfum
The scent of what falls.
There is a weary blessing of an ever-sick tree.
The branches are heavy with time that returns and ripens,
and the earth receives like a rough pillow
the fruits of a memory that knows no shame.
Every step sinks into its truth,
between my fingers I hold the peach, still warm from the sun.
The thin skin opens, yields,
the mouth fills with liquid honey and roots.
It is a bite that tastes of mud,
a juice of rain and dirty hands.
There is now no distance between what falls and what remains on the skin.
Memory nourishes
this breath that tastes of home.
Ultimately, this love also includes the fireflies that had lost their way on these warm nights.
And this garden answered them
just as it answered my tired and useless silence.
Because hands are soiled with mud.
And because mud, perhaps, is life.
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