The pulse that verbs
divest
The commotion in paper
cups
Where ageless insects
gaze at clouds
Is there an idea in these
scraps
a notion activated by the
eyes
by itself pushed on,
thinking?
You open your lips a bit
to the rim
feel the wave arrive,
warm, bubbly.
Has it settled again, the
theatre of a night sky?
The place was offered
within this zero.
Paul
Baumann
