I carry your words as river-water in clay bowls. you do not drink.
you touch my letter as if it were a perfumed neck
while the lovers continue to disintegrate
like the moon at dawnó
when you called me a silver box, you meant lover, the moon, the moon
these words in which I cannot even touch your ghost.
do you know
what silence does to a body? it grows into
a Luna moth that has no mouth and lives for a single weekó
there is your silhouette on a train to Saint Petersburg.
the windows to you are what windows are to birds.
how you see the sky the way a beached whale
sees the ocean: a fata morgana.
to arrive anywhere is to forget. I stand by the mint-green sea waiting,
a connoisseur of want. the sky wet with stars.
if we wait long enough, everything will become letters or stars.