The green rows open up

when you close your hands.

Palm leaves crack

when you avert your eyes.

Nets fling a harvest

of empty armor.

But the one who has

walked the longest

will not be clothed.

The sky gnashes

and impersonates

a purple wreath.

Thorns write on my pillow

and retreat into my veins.

The journey

is a smashed grain of sand

where the gardens

ripped a man.