Flat dull plant,
useless like an uncommon moment,
no-one sings to it, not now, nor reads the
damp letters of night. Words have
scattered like tiny orbs of moon,
blind mouths dream of water,
beautiful faces grow dim, moon has exhausted
all of her descents.
Simplicity, closeness healed, good order,
they have moved out of my life.
Come, make me unhappy.
Toys are merciless,
laughing inside, slicing up time,
alien and precious.
Resigned pot-plants, uncared-for hands,
listless stems and nights and empty dishes;
set everything in order.
A drowned mirror, scars transferred
to water, food for a famished body,
such is its hunger, the wait all healed.
All the women made me sweeter,
they foreswore toys and times, everything,
lovely as they grow from their solitude,
powerful and dark in their reflections,
and inhabit my life no longer.
Nothing makes me sad, not any more.