table,
slowly you become a little fish.
scaled, on which I lay down,
Garden of my little creation:
Nothing solid. Dried ear of corn,
a book, my tired head.
You are a surface, which I heartily embrace with my arms. An area, that melts, like the ground you're still standing on, square cut:
not for sale and sold, long time,
One and yet separate with and from the resinous scents, measured, like this field, inverted stone giant,
even covered with kisses of peace
and smeared with blood oaths,
as an erected wall.
streets, who just sink into the Amazon.
earth, that holds billions of table legs.
grass and silk carpets.
So I quickly unrolled it, the reason,
who still carries you, while I'm sitting by you.
(and wait, that we'll crash down on the record together)
furniture, my favourite, should I then see you as a little tree
transplant?