In the final spring
all kind words being said
for the absence of past and present
fall into the rocks I use
to make my bed. On top of that
countless waiting dreams:
​
Every morning they ask, did you sleep well?
How should I answer? I try to find a new sentence
from the rugged rocks; every arris a blade.
Once the words drop they cut a hollow.
​
Nowhere to hide. So I open my mouth
to show the end of my tongue -
a white burning stone.