speak, also you—
the night is cut
and the moon is beheaded;
a mound of silence
collapses,
outlasting the lucid hymnal.
the clinking of glasses,
the guffaw of the gull trilling
on no cypress.
god has meant locks
and keys.
chiaroscuro is the form
of oblivion, river is the voice
of the dead: the throb of lure-call
poised at the hollow of the hand,
this evening.
there is a sadness that is drunk
with something a lasting recall
wuthers without a name:
the wayward moon hangs,
the guillotine of stars
spreads black blood on the tulip,
drinking as if there is no water,
only that of wine and something
that has brought us together,
separated in the evening
our life, pithless against the wall,
engraved there, unnavigable writ:
sundered, washed ashore.