The windows remain open for
timely renewals and sighs.
I recall I am alive
when the music filters through my autumn sweater.
I look at the horizon
it exists and bends with
what I can no longer hold.
I am alone
only in one step,
only in one memory.
Then someone with his face visits and smiles,
he lies on the bed and I notice his exquisite hands.
This is what remains;
my uncertain nakedness lives imagined,
the premonition of not being accurate enough
in the last voices of an embroidery.
Vainly I point toward his body.
My best atmosphere to the heart.