Tramlines starlit in silence
like the whispers of wet breath.
Last night of spring,
dreamy eyes strewn with the violence
of sleepy wings.
My body strewn in silence at fringes of the night
softly knocks.
Nebula and yellow fog hide
an endless stream of doors of light,
from end to end penetrates
a wild and painful, unearthly shriek.
At the end of the horizon,
floats a queer, unkind solace,
silent, odourless in speech.
Is there anybody home?
Only thing that moves is the vast nothingness
like the last sigh of the night on wet earth.
Behind the curtain waits endless time
at an utter standstill and terror,
scouring the mirrors for its lost body.
Body upon body,
more, endless bodies
like a sack of rotten and forgotten time
at the corner of the mirror.
The Angel of time perched on this heap quietly ruminates
as the history of bodies slowly changes;
every rotten second that pious door
through which you may enter.
Your and my body,
lost in guilty recognition and conflict
across this faceless curtain of a shriek.
Dust gathers in the shriek
like the weeded walls that grow
in protest of time and neglect.
The last night clustered as darkness
behind the piercing and smoky gaze
of time hidden in a heron’s eye.
Remember that I came,
that I kept my promise.
Sound of the last cart wheels
lost and forgotten in yellow concrete.
The body only hears, but never speaks.
Library of Mirrors 