Night Soil

Night Soil


A random walk, its ordinary motion
blurring chronology. Behind, a
seascape. As if on a ship’s deck.

Fear of defeat is an old habit. All this fuss, with my
hat pushed back. Honeyed phantastic. En-
raptured soul. Another blow.

From the end of the corridor, at the kitchen
window. These frosts are cruel. I am not
up to them. Out on the balcony, basking.

History is trash. Elaborate battles make
peace and then, after spectacular defeat,
I may go and I may not.

I’m in a bad mood, forever. We bring no
resemblance. Torment and dreams. Grotesque and in-
clement. Always the same amazing luck.

Rest before the fireplace, forget
fine spacing. To control noise by
attacking the odds. Grope for the knob.

Shutting out light and air. Cold stone
floor. Sinking. Devouring
pit. Dissolve, now, the dungeon.

Streaks of light stream from your
shadow. Redisposed. Clouds are not
simply carried. We observe words and winds.

The door slams behind us. Not so much
forced by the sun as simply
coasting under our own inertia.

The knives of reality. Repeat the names.
Doves, when they fight. Scorn is best and
yes, we may go and we may not.

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