A man with a high forehead
a woman with fine flat hair
each day absorb a particle of venom
from the dead past.
They pat down days into weeks
they tamp down weeks into years.
In wet autumn you read
antediluvian letters wrinkled by tears
her handwriting like slanting rain.
Let’s drink in winter the dry wine
of soughing vineyards.
You close your eyes like an infant
the flies buzz when someone
you wouldn’t like for a neighbour
touches your throat with a razor.
He brushes her white hair
warm snow on the Christmas tree
she peels an orange.
Skin not grazed with an arrow poisoned with love
still clear is the river close to its source.
You pass by a man with difficult to remember
features flowing down with the drizzle
paint off the mannequin.
The silhouette is a shrinking heap
of thawing snow in the vague shape
of a person of unblemished intelligence.
In June the fields burn with golden-green light
the music of wild flowers unfolds in the meadows.
We stand heads down as wheat bent by the wind.
On the days of morning we are awaken
by a premonition of December evenings.
The night after which daylight
makes no change.