makes the evening’s unseen banks quiver a little.
The day has been slowly losing its moorings.
In hastily-built shacks down the river’s edge
flames of burning wicks plead for compassion.
The night jasmine shows its vainness
in its white folds of taffeta;
my hand has gone dry in the long light.
It can pluck nothing from the flower’s breast.
Only some dream observes the various disguises
in which I’ve been spending my time:
To remember death is restful
because it does not need any action at all.