The Blind Moon of Nights
The Blind Moon of Nights
Close to me, upon you, being — your dream draws my thought near,
the blind moon of all nights rolls, bald, drifting soft and clear,
like a ball of spent light on a sky gone mute and bare —
to your borrowed soul I write some letters made of air.
It is my guilt that I read antiquity with thirst,
dead Latin, in disguise, whispering inside me — words dispersed,
my bloated irritation — a balloon that holds desire, not breath —
squint-stare: I watch life in mockery with one eye full of depth.
In your eyes a prose poem — sweet hypnosis past all cure,
may love light up my old age, long as centuries endure,
to life, if I'm alive tomorrow, I'll write crooked lines by hand —
from zero: hero! — a mute echo rising, hard to disband.
Saints say your soul is an egg born from the purest void,
222 — routine drums inside me, hollow and destroyed,
at a dead end — a contrasting memory, an age on loan —
close to me, upon you, being, in the dream I've not yet known.
Dead Latin, in disguise, walks inside me in an evening veil,
from your eyes a prose poem — purple hypnosis, rare and pale,
from zero into hero — a letter gently written on life's wall —
close to me, upon you, being, in the palms of night and pain's long call.
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