Thoughts recline on objects –
the heavy ones lay on oaks, the light ones descend onto lime-tree leaves –
others clatter like a typewriter underneath
the bark
 
Lovers appreciate this way
of life where termites disregard the bumps
of notorious recipes of love
 
feeling iron letters
underneath the temples of loved ones
catching the last of the hurried commas
running like ants out of mouths –
love is both cold and warm
 
lazy in the Sun
written out in routine handwriting
across utterly disinterested leaves