Pastoral and Rustical

Even if I pound on it, could I open
a door locked with the key of contempt?
Could I quietly quarrel with the dust of my own steps?
Could I build a pyramid with a phobia of time?

And even if I searched, I would never manage
to spot the seven differences in envy.
I am solving new puzzles. From the start
I gather dust, the straws scattered on the blanket —
memories of a picnic and of the body’s joy.
A memory of a tree in the river, and close to love.