With basil plants and pulses I 'll live,
folding my arms in cohesion
I ask that my circle close courteously.
The trees' roof lower
and the threhold an inch or so above
the silver driftwood on the strand.
At the turn of the skies around twilight
you forfeit authority
but gain chicory,
I go for an airing on the balcony.
Between door and horizon intervenes God.