Someone wrote you write like a blake,
a knife to the throat"
Dead or Alive.
At any given point in time
more dead than alive.

An ant said my life is like a dream.
In the early hours it was on my upper lip,
after all the sweetness. 
In the darkness the voice collapses,
the eye still bright,   a bridge.

Each clock in the apartment strikes a different hour.
No-one find the other in time.
Time loosens up, moves quicker in mirrors.
What is left of my face?

The black hat and the black dog. Do you know the name?
The morning passes speaking only four words, three cups of tea.
The night in the deserts, the rains in the sea.
Oh, imagination, how I need you!

You in your forest-world
with the dark trees of your love.
In an unknown hour sadness falls.
A grain of recognition: the cracked
hands of villagers, digging graves in the city,

The dead trees in your heart, just so you know.
North by north-west: this soft heavy weight resting on grass
The statue's face on the sea bed.
Everything returning, going.

The crow that dreamed himself a star,
jumped, latched on, and straight out of the world,
leaves autumn, leaves counting, leaves reflections

but leaves no word.