to the crescent moon
Maybe, it tells all the difference,
The sky, your classical optics,
Mine’s a tempest on a teapot.
If you dance, it will be to you a call from
Long distance mornings, the smell of pizzas,
The table of elements, but mine’s by now
Hugely deficient of numbers, of fashion, of every bit
Of fresh days to spare me the troubles of aging.
A thousand tiny deaths would not hurt,
Or maybe, just maybe, they make the difference
To save the sheen from all sorts of journeys.
Let’s say, for each bed that slips into a dream
Every bubble of froth changes into hearts,
Hearts fade into days, days into cupboards.
But until it is day, would darkness know
Someone might be dreaming his last?