It’s raining.
Silence is constructed for prayer.
Constructed for the chill between the ribs.
Outside it’s raining.
Silence
embalms the passage of time
with patience.
Like the disconnected chords
from the gills of flying fish
is this silence.
Outside it’s raining.
The letter hasn’t arrived:
There’s a red line on the screen.
All the vows were broken,
each and every consignment.
And the silence rests
on my eyelids.
Outside it’s raining.
Time grows like an ever swollen bruise,
in silence.
Translated by Patricia Gatt