Suspect, look out,
poems here
soon petrify
into proverbs.
 
Travel
quickly to
the inaccessible
closeness that
 
for want of
summits
stirs
 
in secret.
 
Can you still
hear something
there,
an echo?
 
Quiet,
it’s just
an
impression in
 
black-and-white
of a sound
in colour.
 
Is it helping?
So little, too much
this soon.
 
How do
the tears and
folds
 
get into
the dust jacket
of
 
a book
that is
hardly ever
 

touched?