(. . . )
Evening comes
as always,
and as you forget,
you hesitate
between one thought
and another —
you welcome darkness
but wish for light.
(. . . )
Unpeopled room which
the light will people,
known things which
ask again to be known —
the book left open
the newspaper
the basket of letters
which she
who you love . . .
“How does it come
this wave of infusion?
How does it enter the blood
that you feel it
with such
violence?
How does it enter
the angel
and remain pure?
I mean, how does
the angel
remain pure?”
(. . . )
It is too easy
to answer one’s own
questions,
to give left hand
to right
as Keruvim do.
What do you say
to yourself
but your own confusions?
Do you wish yourself,
when darkness comes,
a sentimental farewell?
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