if there are any sweetness in salt, i shall have it (and at any cost)
on my wounds. i refuse honey from bees and molasses in bread.
for it does not contain the sweetness of sea
or the bitterness in sugar.

on my wounds
it will heal without eyes
(all
alone)
or a gentle touch that drains the ocean

no gauze will hug a ticking metronome
and this is my rhythm of introversion
and a Kiwi will be he only one who understands my flightless ability.

beyond this surface on which i lay is a bed of petals
bathed in marine salts and not with natural extracts
which are really intangible fingers
that heal with touch and stings with stroke

My wish is
(lost)
in the savanna of (milky) stars.