This is what feeling is like
in his hands, his fingertips;
holding on to concrete
and the wind

That must be what sadness keeps
in his clothes, his body
Colors of gray, of white
and never-ending light

This is what future understands
in his eyes, his soul
Solitary wisdom
moving without seeing and believing

This must be what
This must be
This is
This

Flight of paper thinness
Board and covered
Thoughts
written, felt, forgotten
by everyone

But me