1.57

I am letting

the image disappear

into the fickle

rain

emptied

out of a glass

erratic

in me

violent

angered

Twice

an unlikely choice

of number

for solitude

instead

disfigured

the sight

that already forgot

the cruelty

of the eye

Painless

this time

a morning

of sun

in the stomach

of the pilgrim

imagined

the words

of the stranger

wayfarer

Innocent

but merciless

forgetful

the hour

undeadly

inebriated

the morning

that wept

the silence

without the dance