Wheel

I place words. One after another.
Sentences that seem to make sense — or so they seem.
I write without saying.
And in saying nothing, I’ve said too much.

Always around the same.
Returning without return.

I move on.
I hurry on the straights;
slow down on the curves.
The landscape does not change.

The mind, lazy, orders the body to go on.
I walk down the cliff.

The murmur of the sea, stretching itself, is cut by the slap of water on the sand,
and by the white sheets of foam retreating like a bed unmade
under the first rays of sun.
I close my eyes and let myself drift in that dance — rhythmic.