Thoughts recline on objects –
the heavy ones lay on oaks, the light ones
descend on linden leaves –
or they simply tick like a typewriter
underneath the bark

Lovers appreciate this way
of life where termites disregard the bumps
of notorious recipes for love

feeling iron letters
underneath the temples of loved ones
catching the last of the hurried commas
scurrying like ants out of mouths –
love is both cold and warm

lazy in the sun
written out in routine handwriting
across utterly disinterested leaves