. . . only mosquitoes and a piano remain
a July night   seeming as though it was empty

But I know nothing of it
I pass through   forget    take out the key

I know emptiness is also impossible
I sweat    looking at myself

Unsure whether I really know
or    maybe I really don’t know

About the beasts of July  I’ve said too much
the insect-repellent incense has turned to ash   the piano is patient

I’ve spoken too much of myself
In the elevator    I am empty no one