As if a language with

Nothing but a fluttering in heaven

The future poetry frees itself

Of its very dear dwelling 

Wing in a whisper the courier

This fan, if it is the one,

The same, behind which

You some mirror has it

Clear (where it’ll fall another time

Each speck pursued

A little invisible ash

Only to bring me down again)

Always it appears so

Between your hands without idleness

04/13/2008