Erase one world as wind a footprint.
Merciless, clean from the blank a tenuous mumbling
as one pulls from the ground the weed.
A scent of fertile, damp earth remains
amid fingers.
Pick another word, plougher of music.
You long for a boat to sail through this word, the clay pitchers to fill
with wine for the celebration, or an apple to ripen
on the sad branches of winter.
You can never tell: words are unpredictable ballerinas;
either they carry you to a field of wild waters,
or flee from you laughing, since you are so poor.