The sky

The open nuts on the table

are still sound

– bright eye movement

from door to table:

the work, the weight that doesn't exist,

the slight craving for people –

as if beauty had no origin.

These nuts made noise,

my thoughts take away

(they are born and already belong to everyone,

all thoughts...),

claim me to the body,

to the one I say flavor

(ideas are always disembodied,

are part of everyone?),

keep me counting the remains,

to collect them on the table (and mine

thoughts, whom did they make happy?).

The broken husks belong to these hands,

to the hollow, to the lines of the palms,

seed tips – a life is born

instantly inside these hands.

Have no thoughts.