I walk on cotton and cloud
or streets at random
and is nothing to do with autumn
(I’ve been thinking about this)
nights are thick
stretching like a duvet
over thin light
and flashbacks are drills
penetrating the walls of my fortress
(I am not going to talk about this)
...but your name is getting louder
and louder
in my head
and when I finally fall
asleep/ there’s an echo
knocks at my thought
from the thought of the ocean
a paddle
lost by a boat in a memory wave
like a submerged rock surrounded by walls
where from a whimper departs
silences go out to greet him in the evening
witnesses being only the mornings
lost through ports
no one hears his grief
tuck to his chest like a poniard
Wasn’t it further
any flare?
Even rarer
became the shuteye of the starer.
His face averted,
lashing himself for the valedictory staccato
of his will-o’-the-wisp
looked set on the pleasurer.
Longer than an epimyth
had milled about the downslopes
the forthright wayfarer
to harbour his quixotic hope!
preened for his aright scoop the plunderer.
I travelled with long bodies picturing me as a snail
odd traces of my shadow behind
I remember how my voice sounded
when slipping around every endangered place
and hang myself on your widowed memory
like a sad silence
no anger should I feel
nor any distance from me while my shell breaks
but mutual thirst
when you come and say I pray for a new son
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