Small fissures
created by the womb of exploding spiders
that are midnight colored daydreams,
your thoughts are made of beautiful ice.
And when i go to undress you
you vanish in the indigo twilight.
Because a spirit made of silence
is nowhere at all.
And by the sound of this place
I see that I am nowhere at all.
I make myself unknown to those who
are least known.
Where there is civilized space
called the great quiet empty;
where belief lasts only a minute or two;
there are equal amounts of distance
and solitude.
I dream of hands rustling through
pages empty at every turn.
A faceless nun takes a bow.
Surgery is certainly unheard of.
There are ballets that go on day and night.
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