The past does not flood your eyes as before:
the seed of those days, the desire
that nothing got out of skies and horizons,
that poetry as a measure of all things
and those forced to save
died from excessive light and dry grass.
In writing you felt the first vampire in the world
tempted by suicide. At your fingertips you kept
stones disintegrate on contact with light,
sins, which were the key to deep wounds voracious devouring bodies
themselves in the middle of the night
and your dark room. The past is no longer
scale of your time: you've built walls, walkways, hemispheres,
a moat filled with creatures that loved you
when hunger was part of the same script,
and have forgotten the rituals that lead to inside, wrist compasses
created by your own hands,
all the words away from clockwise
for fear of being repeated at the wrong time. ___________________________________________________
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