You are the company to whom I speak
suddenly, all alone.
The words that start
from silence form you
and the pool of dreams
in which I drown in freedom
till I wake.
Your metallic hand
strengthens the swift prise of my own,
directs the pen
that draws its littoral across the page.
Your voice, sickle of the echo,
is the reverberation of my voice against the wall,
and in your mirrored flesh
I see myself look thru a thousand Arguses,
thru me, extended seconds.
But the slightest sound drives you to flight,
and I see you leave
thru the door of the book
or thru the atlas of the ceiling,
thru the chessboard of the floor,
or the page of the mirror,
and you leave me
heart stopped, wordless and faceless,
stripped like a naked man of all my masks
in the middle of the staring street.
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