Black solitude, cool forehead.
behind it gathered higher
than obliteration so alone, without memory
to drown in white.
farness, stretched to the light allures
flames of never appeased satiety
in an open coronal cup of shedding days,
though space is lasting, what enormity
of never ending fading in the air!
weight, dispersed to poppy seeds of moments,
is cumulating in the bodily tight
embrace of years, weight,
plasmatically spilled into the day, now
and here, over the bream that holds what is,
to the brink, is being
a bottomless abyss, measured
with a plumb of pain?
a wound gazing to a wound, an eye to an eye.
what wakefulness opening the eyelids!
is my blood blending with your pulse
within one circulation?
a farewell, felt by feelers stretched out
towards the lost, and within the soul, twice erased
height of the call with no fulfillment. under the dark
skies of the past in a halo, encircled
by Psyche longer than the light of a candle.
the murmur, gathered with intent to withhold what
the silk reveals, gently folded in distancing.
the black-rimmed dawn appear, or a skylark, along with
a nightingale’s song? two lumps of gravity in expecting bosom,
yet the voice with plagal wings is to the skies returned.
in gaping air, the riddle mutely hangs: its shadow facing daylight,
but towards the night it is hopingly spread
over the unanimous fall of two lives
into romejuliet’s embrace.
is there still anywhere more absence held in hands
so tightly joined?
on the lips a whisper drawn in a rime of semivowels,
translucent of imperfection, but for the living
a requiem, preserved for eavesdropping never ended.
in it, between the wrinkles,
hidden from the sight, lastingly shines a sorrowful tear
(carbon crystal’s clearest water),
stuck with valences into soft stygian velvet.
an eye, reaching out of life to eternity,
with the look of the light years -
you but to perfection with the word:
the time behind the eyelid stored:
immer und nimmer.
by fortuitous flesh grown into now:
ichundich, filled up to the throat
with the tears of eros.
added to death: a deafmute verse,
tasted on the lips.
pressed into the being’s pressure what is and is not,
high, without egress. ever-
lasting weight, lulled towards the earth.
are the dreams from underneath another azimuth assembling?
neither a trap nor an exile, endlessly
within secluded circles.
a solution, trodden by the steps that follow
the nascent death in water, softly shaded
between to come and to go, equationally interspaced
how much in between collected into days!
where am I? the truth is even barer than bare,
and the nought is perfect: beyond the words
that keep my voice within themselves.