Not the End

Sheets of paper come to an end, the tree leaves too.

He wants to put an end too. He can’t. Flocks of birds

come and perch on the tree’s leafless branches;

they perch for a while, they resemble ripened, winged fruit;

the only thing he knows is that they fly away again.

This sensation of flight shivers endlessly on the side

of his shoulders, like roots of two invisible wings.

First Dampness

A little moist in the garden chairs at the end of the evening;

they’ll pull the oars out of the boat; the lamp and the flag

of the Customs Office will be left alone. The jetty, already

dark and long, extends into infinity like an empty hand

that doesn’t know what to ask. A star will appear later

to excuse those who forgot their sandals on the shore

a few days ago.