Anatomy of an August night:
you are looking with devotion
at the poem as it slowly invents the words
(sea    form    reflection)
that will narrate you.

You begin to write:
. . . the poet is a little figment of imagination
invented in retrospect . . .
. . . in the realm of the gaze
distortion prevails . . .


You stop.
You look to your side.
She is still lying on the sand
in her hand, a glass of wine.

. . . The silent haughtiness
of every man who has deeply suffered
finds all forms of disguise
necessary
in order to be protected
from the contact
with anything that is not
alike in grief . . .

You have nothing to add.
Maybe one more phrase about distance or rather
about negation after the dots.

Your eyes are welled with tears.
You are telling a lie
(sensuality does not point to the other
but the other’s sensuality,
it is the sensuality of sensuality,
the love of the other’s love)
You close the notebook


As you are kissing her
the pawn slides down the snake’s tail
and returns to the starting-point –
to darkness

(conscience returns to
itself)