outside, the freezing desert night.
this other night inside grows warm, kindling.
let the landscape be covered with thorny crust.
we have a soft garden in here.
the continents blasted,
cities and little towns, everything
become a schorched, blackened ball.
the news we hear is full of grief for that future,
but the real news inside here
is there's no news at all.
friend, our closeness is this:
anywhere you put your foot, feel me
in the firmness under you.
how is it with this love,
i see your world and not you?
listen to presences inside poems,
let them take you where they will.
follow those private hints,
and never leave the premises.