A collector of evil faces which she nonchalantly folds
And keeps in one of her thousand closets
Along with dusty tax papers and books in the language
She isn’t going to use anymore, she comes,
She who precedes silence barefoot,
With a simple note or just a sound or a soul
Of a wind lost in that closet, a sound endlessly twisted
Like the tail of an extremely happy dog.
Each ear, she knows, is blocked.
Each verb, she thinks, is a silly joke.



It is time to remember vacated days and towns
With the air of antiquity that has been
Irreparably damaged by passing geese.
We hate the sound of their wings.
We live forgotten by outer darkness,
Transfixed in a few shrunken psyches,
Desultorily divine. Our water is too old to drink.