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