You enter me
the truthfulness of the dark.
You want proofs of darkness, want
to drink the black wine:
take your eyes and crush them.
I know you exist because your eyes fly open
and shed their light on things, like an open window.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations.
But you – The One Who Puts Things In Order – you shimmer
through like a bee, probing spaces lost to the darkness:
conquering light, you with your white energy.
You painted solitude in literary strokes,
dressed it in a tie you had copied from a book,
and the shirt of sleep.
Inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift – go in,
your shadow covers this page.
In vain I await your written word
and think, with the flower that withers,
that if I live without myself, I wish to lose you.
There is no one here
presence without name surrounds me.