Absolute death

looms at the horizon of events

where everything stops

without disappearing

The world evens out

The sky takes a deep breath

The passing moments

are transparent carriers of riddles

Everywhere budding bodies

The world goes without saying

I erase / raise random words / days

in a text / diary

to see what appears / remains

Beginning as an obligation,

reading Proust became a necessity

and a way of living, for a time

In the morning

I let life rise slowly

like a galaxy

pretending to lift it

with my eyes

but the world goes without saying

My skeleton, porous, light,

whistles

like Hariprasad Chaurasia's flute,

while outlines of heavy prisons & hospitals soar

suspended,

like mirages of distant dancing elephants

on the savannah

Glenn Gould's eagle claws move

across the keys

without ever getting a hold

Bach is a pre-historic Hopi divinity,

retreated into a rock face in Arizona,

and the world goes without saying,

the world goes without saying

I am an interpreter of years,

translating faces

of the alleged,

hiding under their likelihoods,

sketched

across blind windows of pain,

the depths of abandoned wells

of farms

returning to the wild,

stacked high with the unseeing,

while silence rattles

its loose signposts

of a Warner Wild West setting,

and my mind, relieved, dissolves

in the fragrance of wild rosemary

and John Sheppard's In Manus Tuas ,

the northern wilderness pure and lonely

as the world goes without saying