Article: Letters to Robinson.(Poem)

 
I 
 
We heard the heron at the end of July. 
It had come to sing with a solitary quack 
of oceanic time and an uncertain and speechless 
dream of girls, the dry voice of wind and distance. 
Dark secrets of decency. False visions 
beneath this soil. Alphabets that herald 
the cleaner letters of abyss. 
The lookout of sweat has arrived 
like a verb's shadow. 
Where we speak of domestic things, 
shattered glass, mirrors for the faces 
of who we never were, 
always leaves us behind. 
We now see a thousand faces immersed 
in mundane files 
of loneliness and doubt, 
records for the crystal ball of apparitions. 
Subtle features that never changed us 
into a precise feline print. 
Time ...

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