like crumbs she collects her tears
the room speaks carelessly for itself
even silhouettes are invisible through the antique curtains
so she decides to give the night-moths a voice
acherontia atropos she claims
wrapped in negative frequency
desperately drawn to their ill fate
the Goldberg variations - Zimmerman
(Glenn Gould did it better)
she cuts faded photographs into a sepia collage
her knife cuts open landscapes
where the sun inevitably sets
I leave the room and decide that a single sheet will suffice
her leg slowly rubs against mine
it feels inescapable - time only has a final destination
lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate
I pour myself a drink
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