THE SIGN

 

***

The sign nailed on the door of this refuge

crushes your toes, tibiae to make distinction

between humans and things, abandons you outdoors,

curious eyes are watching you from beyond Acheron –

it is your suppressed wail that is undergoing other forms

and my lyre can barely guess them in your souls

twinned with the sky becoming poem, scars making

you dream about the sign’s legs that make perfect a memory,

let us live this is all that is left after the eternal inextinguishable

breath – a sui generis beatitude is ascending and from nothing

came out nothing, the avatars of the conformism

show us another face.

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