Again I would hear the night sounds
through the hours of civilities
when there was a pause
in the body untouchable.
You were sleeping with counterfeits,
running down the golden dome
sailing over the silken clouds.
My rough palm was still holding the pen.
That mirage, that fire on the road had cheated us.
You had pushed me in an aging portrait. Alive,
I am looking at you from an empty glass.