It's cold this light of memory
slight glimpses insistently
shine
turn
searching for the empty bottle or
the rain puddle

behind any opening door
lies the moon
as large and flat
as out of place as a
painting
oils on paper hardened by
time

thus fell in the mind
forms and colours
coincidences
chance knotting shadows
things thrown into the black pot
where joy and fright
wildly boil

the plaster grows in a sky that was
hurt a thousand times
bleached a thousand times
the world is erased and
rewritten
to the last breath

just this:
apparent eternity
dismal splinter of light in
the entrails of the
beast that
scarcely was.