Amid fear and suspicions, with agitated mind and frightened eyes, we melt and plan how to act to avoid the certain danger that so horribly threatens us. And yet we err, this was not in our paths; the messages were false (or we did not hear, or fully understand them).

Another catastrophe, one we never imagined, sudden, precipitous, falls upon us, and unprepared -- there is no more time -- carries us off.

Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of Whom anything that could be said
must be denied,
the dead one, alien everywhere,
is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything,
we leave him not so much as a color or syllable:
here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see,
there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking,
he could be thinking;
we have divvied up like thieves
the booty of nights and days.

I know that some night
in some bedroom
soon
my fingers will
rift
through
soft clean
hair
songs such as no radio
plays

all sadness, grinning
into flow

'There's no escape from this fear,
regret,
loneliness...'
Visions of love and hate
A collage behind my eyes
Remnants of dying laughter
Echoes of silent cries