from "Voids"

I stepped back from my death

it was strange and inhuman to me

*

and now my eyes are knives slicing the night to

                                                         split the mist

rising inside

like the tears of a poem

shedding its sadness

over the warm flight of egrets

flitting about

after the docile defeat

 

*

 

now my eyes are knives slicing the mist like a di-vi-ded body

I stepped back from my death

and rose up

clandestine

syllable by syllable

almost like the unwritten poem

and suddenly

hair tousled by days of abandon

I find your discontent

in a commonplace dress

the furled poetic fabric 

that switches the body on

to disarray

in a song without refrain

some fruit scattered

in the rush to ripen

these mineral days

I want to climb beyond the reach of words

where my death will not be

the death of others too

even if I see my sorrow in yours

and then I don’t.