More incomplete poems

My hands become invisible
each time the day is revealed
like a horoscope
caught in the halfway space
of reasoning and doubt.
I find myself explaining myself
to aquatic numbers
which are swimming somewhere
upstream where the dawn
is collecting silence.
Every cloud is
a lyrical ballad
waiting to to be rained.
And you are nearer
than any star to Heaven
simply because of virtue.

Edge of Splendor

Every day is hung on the nail,
a wreath of life, flowered.
Water to the tongue,
giver of life.
Quiet pools of complacency
pour from the mouth of Eden,
which is invisible.

Hand of truth, gatherer of waterfalls:
its ripples are misgivings.
An idea wakes,
gives birth to mammal
like ideology to man.
Just as sewers are to loneliness
is not the soul stupid
when written in cruciforms?

I walk the moors,
I walk the jagged rocks
where oozes the corpuscle,
its veins shaking like roots
in a black river bed.

Untitled

Lucid dreams abraid
My fallen sky
A blown kiss
For your starlight