It shines in the garden,
in the white foliage of the chestnut tree,
in the brim of my father's hat
as he walks on the gravel.
I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
A rough sound was polished until it became
a smoother sound, which was polished until
it became music.
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed.
When you see them
tell them I am still here,
that I stand on one leg while the other one dreams,
that this is the only way,
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.