Of all rhythms he found day and night Comments

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Of all rhythms he found day and night
the most beautiful. One, two, and thank God
no three. That only came later, when
everything was over, a dark number

disguised as a nought. How does a work of art
arise? When does a motet begin,
a poem, a light that seems to have no origin?
Who thinks of a first line before thinking?

From a morass of reflections, a miry
struggle between the past and an invented present,
a single visible moment arises
in which time no longer measures

the sinking.
...
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