Do you really want to write
about those cold stars,
the country roads that take you home
to no one? If you cannot bear
your own redundancy,
who else? Only the anxious silences,
the soundless cradle of your mouth.
No cries, only endurance.

What secrets are there left?
Surely, all that came before
Hangs loose from the lips of every stranger,
Or is holed up in the corners
Of solemn mouths.
What truths to be told,
Sucked like marrow from old bones.
A glorious love
now just barely hidden,
A language that lives
In the body of a glance.