*
You mourn the way this sand
has no strength, keeps warm
between one day and another
and your closed hands
that need the place
left by a small stone
dropping slowly in water
though what rests here
is the emptiness already mist
and nothing starts again
--you dig as if this beach
blossoms once your fingers
open and these dead
lose their way among the flowers
that no longer come home
--you kneel easily now
pulled down by your shadow
following head first as rain
heavier and heavier
tracing a face with just your lips
and worn out nod.
apocrypyphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3