---

Wind tears the flesh like a thought

and the face reveals still of a song

in futile search of the dawn in a dream

disappearing and coming back redeemed

I have neither pleasure nor pain

in this warmth of a well heated room

rummaging in soul digging up something

that ought to have lain there unnoticed

evoking a replica

as absolute and pure as death

shapen heart of quiet rage

its hundred mouths open and two eyes closed

hiding name under the tongue

growing inward and becoming blood

a lottery of tragedies

in a series of near-escapes

still the core of me is untouched

your tears into my eyes

until we finally know

what to do with them