My garden has stories.
I comply with its routine
of branches and flowers.
I’ve been for a month
or maybe for a few weeks.
Looking and listening
to the sounds
of the uneven floor.
Cycling my routine away
with my camera.
During the sunny
afternoon.

I saw the grey
squirrel’s routine
(the same one that
throws my plants
on the floor)
looking for a place
for its treasures.

These are routines
of cinema on the radio.
With the voices of
people I love.
Sometimes with melancholy
High and Dry*.
Sometimes wanting
to be what my camera takes.
While I routinely ride
my bicycle.
Down the avenue
to the grey bridge
(grey as the squirrel).

The routine brought
the night.
Tonight I can see
the Northern stars.
I routinely put these
words in ink.
And the ink
inside a bottle.
So that the sea
with waves and stones
will return them to me
tomorrow.
In time to take my bicycle
and my garden.
To bridges with treasures.
And the routine
of a paper theater.

* High and Dry, Radiohead