(for Patrick Modolo)

the soul of nobody
The soul of that wasted nomad who troubles with harsh hungry silence 
and sharp gaze like a star's one-pointedness

cold and pitiless, A number of demons
Gather like qualities of an apple
This gathering, why, by what force,
without it there is nothing but ghosts

no truth-juice

only the cold hungry claw that cuts
the body of our thoughts
grasping, groping, lost in a green paradise
the will-to-perfection that destroys

And.. And...

And how the nouns are all Sun, Earth, Rain, and Air,
yet when blooming
where is the emptiness of a flower?