It is currently one hour 
before the dark day of the soul.

goosebumps on arms, little mountains
crumpling as if on workbooks of children
so easily destroyed, so passionately distant: eyes
here there and everywhere
there and everywhere
everywhere
else.

the old t-shirt is sturdier than money
warmer, too, than many washes would tell
through and through honesty
the old-shirt is not a person
yet I am more alone when in the company of men.

One hour still stands before I gaze down the well
what lies before me at the zenith of my brilliance is either
all or nothing,bathing in the luxury of the written word and its contemplativequiet
What lies have they fed us on silver spoons,
while gazing into their cracking compact mirrors?
What words have they thought to define as if they could just be known, no
I am no longer convinced 
by politicians and debt collectors
I am no longer contrived,
like the very agents that fed me
I am no longer.

Probably this sweater will not be enough to keep me warm:
I am too filled with hopes, too engorged on dry ice
for which I am waiting for the first hints of a crevasse
that will carry me away 
as birds: young lover,
you keep me rooted and unseeking
though I fear for the day your hands leave my eyes

for through the soles of my feet I sense that this city
is empty as the vernal equinox.

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