All poetry is exaggeration,
as youth is, saying things
with uncommon words.
Words stain what we hear,
as the night stains the sky
from unseen vats.
The dye is a deep sediment within,
its color that of
eternal elimination.
The last consonant closes
the word in an echo, we must
reconstruct it
through the mountain air
and the misty meadows
and the morning dew
all the while not knowing
that half a word and a mirror
will do the trick.
(1999)
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