I thought of the poet who entered the hospital,
how his mouth finished its long work.
Parts of his body locking things up. I felt that
the poet died that night. All authors
words became hours. Everything they talked about,
I didn’t care anymore. Everything I had seen
in my life it turned into wood. without gentleness,
I was so lost that I hit wood
the moon and my dead father answered. I asked him
why was he not in my heart He handed me a
a small cloth to wet my eyes to see in the fire.
Another one to shut me up. He hung up the spyglass
around my neck, he didn’t say anything, he stopped me
sadness, he held it like a purse. He turned around
around me and brought me back down. When I
came back, the mirrors were wooden too. Without
mirrors, all the writers were scattered. When I
I stood in front of the mirror, I saw nothing but
wood too. I saw death almost twice, but I
I hated that I was still no better than anyone else.
