Let wind
scratch sleep and voice
remain submitted

And dip your fingers into
memories, in subtle
whirlings of light.

They are true stories those
that concoct time;
and sighs are lost in the air

and through door panels
cries escape.
Fugitive memory

not the shuddering, the fear
of imprecise speaking or knowledge.

A light and persistent trace
engraving itself slowly on the skin.
An ineffaceable scar.

The dining-room light.
The shadow of a hand
on a sheet of paper.

Translated by the author