the space
was invaded by his disappearance,
everything he touched felt so quiet, and alive,
more alive than i was,
(i sat on the bed, curled, like a dog,
with the nozzle on its paws,
eyes in tears)
the chair remained near the window,
closer to the flowers, and closer to the light,
i watched it as if it belonged to a king: -
this chair knew him better, - i never
could imprint his image, it was always slippery, like ice,
and,
now, my innocent eyes, like the best detectives, are
trying to reconstruct his body,
drawing its contour in the air, how you would
outline a dead person on the asphalt,
its scent, i follow,
how the air goes back and forth, from me to the chair,
from the chair to me, filling the invisible shape,
i could sense as if he were sitting
somewhere in the room, in a corner,
his skin, and his touch was there; it felt
as if he made love with the room, with the bed, and
the bed was in love with his body for letting
the memory of him to be its very essence, the
concave shape deepening in the mattress, and
the mattress was breathing as if it had its heart in it.
it was the ~fureur~ its very core,
the turbulence - it felt like the walls were built for
this kind of appearance,
the home without unequal images
it was just a cave waiting for the man
to be born again, and discover the fire