And he was told not to look up at night
and mapped his own constellations on the floor
For each of this he made new myths
for each of this founded a library

All his lovers he had at day
turn to embers on his ashtray
before pounding them gray

And he was told next time you see the sky
you will go blind for the faces appearing
as you open the door will be yours

Once you come back
into the bedroom
the walls will crumble down

In a room with no walls, how do you tell
the time of day when all you have
are your hands, your hands?
After so long, the floor was all used up
to the figure that it held

With one stroke, you could trace one star
to any other and become the same lover,
the same myth.

Night has become this.

7 June 2012
with a man who disappears


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