In this hard land soft stone of seasons,
where autumn is no longer accidental.
The white linen cloth seems to have
been lowered permanently on the face,
mirrors out of the shadow
grows daily colder.
Until she takes her place:
making visible
what has been written,
rubs herself into him with soft lips.
The way you walk through the evening, he says then.
The way you don’t give a damn for the day
finishes me.
Awakens the pike in my tongue
and the amoebe of your lips.
Fighting all about me in naked skin against death.
Not keeping a shred of shame,
in this negative of time.