Pouring

Urn was carring the snow
unmelted
like the soul of night.
It was a very strange winter
like araucaria puzzle.

Who was dragging the evergreens
over the chaste cliff?
All the incogerent roots have broken
the placenta for new gods.
Millionaires?

The marriage of basil at dusk
with a paperweight, unleaving the road.
I was hearing the footsteps of dawn,
though sky was not listening to knocks.