On a high ridge, in a grove Of beeches, someone sits at sunset, and takes stock of his breath,

Which is the unfolding pages of his life. He is seperate from everything Because everything is seperate from him.

Wind embraces the trees, sun embraces With dying radiation the city that becomes White noise: sirens, engines, conversations'

Hum, music spilling from earphones, waists Of women tanning like clay shards, running feet. All this at a distance, no larger than that

At which they were before, and always. He now embraces a tree, rests his face Against the bark, the parchment for rains,

And listens to the sound of sap rising, Heart's drone, a woodpecker's drill, And murmurs of half forgotten lines:

"But thou, when thou prayest, enter into Thy closet." "My God, my God, Why hast Thou forsaken me?"

Ache. Seperation. Falling darkness.

Standing in the shade Of a cherry tree in blossom, When I let my consciousness

Go towards that place where Everything is unadorned, Where bone rubs against bone,

And words vanish into silence’s spindrift, And hands, after traversing your ears’ crevasses, Keep sliding down your neck, and I arrive

At this insistent buzzing Of moths dipping their mouths Into my body, just breaking into blossom!

Silence is the way sunlight Traverses your face And leaves highways For words to follow on.

Silence is the touch of a curtain In a rainstorm, and the words of endearment, Which you don't fail to hear In silence.

Silence is the heartbeat A shell holds of the sea, The whorls of which I kiss When I kiss your navel.

Silence is the well Into which you shout All your names of forgetting For me to listen.

Silence is the place Where one rain cloud meets another Where this hand touches these lips And trembles for a moment