napo three: freedom&form

 The promised poem from third of April:



The stars crouch in my pocket,
beheaded and curling
around the raincoat walls like a stain of burnt milk.
I run. Cloths drag like pious whine,
antibiotic, rosary. Beauty
cannot be freedom. The depth
of imprisonment is the silk and the shine.

Will form free me?

On the road I want to be naked.
Touch the stones with my skin
like the eyes of  a fake painting.
Drive my chest into the wind
and reverse with the lung.

I'm walking in the rain
under an umbrella of parallel universes
and their tourists' letters home:
darling I've forgotten the roses
darling I hear washing machines in my sleep
and then wake.

The rain is under me now. The sun is
in my eyeball, a vivid image of  bushes.
cut  by the student gardener, sweating and
hung over.

Nudity is necessary because
it is the will not to lie.

But my pockets are too heavy
for the hitchhike across  freedom,
but my stars are too dim to shine through
the curtain across form.