The windscreen splinters my face When I gaze into the night Contained in these desolate towns Which might be your eyes.

There was a time when everything There was clear, the blue Of the canals was yet to be obscured By the hyacinth,

Incarnadine like the words with which Our tongues marked us, The “no”s and “don’t”s knotting nooses Around those quick days.

What to do? Neither language with its Ribbed chest enough bread Nor our palms’ prayer at the small Of our backs enough warmth

When every room became a desolation. So when with that unsayble Sentence my mouth betrayed you, my wrists Were already handcuffed to pain.

Now exiled from paradise to this place Where the moon doesn’t cast Its shadow, I rove with thirst, my spine Lanced with an airplane’s needle,

As I keep falling, forever falling Like a meteor through your heart.

* A response-poem to this previous poem.