After a stem of light-locked-in-darkness I hid myself
After a stem of light-locked-in-darkness I hid myself,
in the round rectangular of flowers dead-revived,
the celebration of my absence, the gift of no one unto none,
the isolated autumnal one with spring's venom in blood,
who whispers to me in thunder's voice: I can no longer can,
to answer your screaming silence, to catch hold of the moment
oasis-desert of burning hibernation, the night extinguished-in-flames,
a Tuesday of Sunday without the unpenetrated pain in head,
the elbows full of void prophesying the resurrection-entombed,
the other you of frozen summer, because you, my love,
you have always been gentler than the cruelty of loneliness.
In the dry lake of burning tears, ecstatic-apathetic,
the shadow of the flesh of your ethereal love collapsed upward
on the valley-mountain, the old childhood-pubescent, the fool-wise,
the blind-mirror from the threshold of the abandoned house-replaced,
of my gaze awake-asleep, rebellious as the stars-submissive,
through the sky-earth ephemeral-eternal, struck-caressed, wounded-healed,
the temptation-refuge, in the serious game of life-death of love,
that one of yours without you, with her without her, to lose ourselves counting:
zero as everything, one as no one, two as loneliness halved,
YOUR sadness luminous, MY immensity closed in the open palm,
in the square circle of time without time, where we found ourselves lost.
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