I remained sitting for a long time
in the old position on the prow,
watching the tallest flames fade
to a thin curtain of smoke
for three days.
it was for three hours,
day had some fragments
few dear moments
rocky grim and contour of the hills
too highly made.
I walked four hundred miles strip
to return only to realize
it was the distance of curiosity
between room and balcony,
crossed many times.
In the room
i see my shadow
curling upon papers
which are (h)ours
I wonder should i break the silence
and say something
fire is made anew,
and i hear:
– Are the logs dry?
– yes. write.
– Are you back out of your illusion?
– Yes. No. You have done no work
worth speaking of for two nights.
– You have done no work worth
speaking of for two days.
Why the devil that face?
– Read your piece and stop slouching
– Can one leave one sentence
to be disentangled some other day?
– I seem to have torn it up for you. You’re on fire.
– Yes i am.
– Don’t write. go back and correct your exercises
(unifying light of being
How like a movement in a still house beauty is
dark tremor in the act of love)
” Return into thyself dark creation, do no wrong
others light when you borrow
let not ashes possess thy song
if it takes all of thee,
you will not cry tomorrow.
(jumps into the fire..)