ISLAND: FLUCTUANT SAYING

And so many quiet phrases
which go to sleep in a cloud of dust
And the design of the silk
in the astonished look

Reminiscent coral
which the invader never invokes.
And the prelude of the mouth
in the fatal fragrance.

Garden of the mournful moon.
Old stone that gets lost.
And the argument so green
Of the island that hounds me

like a divine remedy.
Maybe the fluctuant saying
elongates in the hiker
that is left without a road.