from the precipice i can only fall
up, out of the fish that beats 
the ground for dryness.
the climb upon the shoulders of
this giant turtle left atlas inured, but
i never waved to the perfidious griffins,
my hands lifting the feather of
i.
beyond the distance that passes through
man, i invoke 
the name of silence and 
lean my hand on your breast,
afraid to 
lean my hand on your breast.

3.1.99