At night peeling off the sweaty bedsheet
from my back seems inevitable,
time and again, I have dreamt a moveable eclipse
devouring the constellations of conscience.
My father waned bleeding through nose
and mouth. I cannot deny the fact that death
reverses strains. This is a chestnut tree.
Father taught me, albeit I learned only –
the shadows shorten to lengthen underneath the Sun.
Night turns into a milk bottle. Dawn gains
sharpness on the blade of a bilingual letter opener.
I sigh on my arm, a bad luck as my father would have
uttered; now how can I wipe it out? Skin
hymns to the wind. Every sigh, I tell myself,
is a whispering, and every whispering is vesper.
Photo Nick Victor