So my absentism will prevail
over presence;
I will talk to you in space
between the moments
of autumn red
when nothing else was moving.
In classical pursuit, I straignten
the equation and we understand
the complexities of life, and agree to depart
unlooking at the moon, crossing
the river of silence, with no blueprints
on hands.

The random pain will eat the words
like a vanGogh painting.