soliloquy I.

epicene-writing:

Now
that the frost has grasped us.

Off
the coast of the lights, of their large white bodies, so quickly
soiled? Almost at the center of the mist, where a crouched form left
her dress, or coating, of yellow silk. She is now bathing
in the solid light, and twists
her long hair that is at one with the shadows. She doesn’t look at
you.

Crucified
with light even in the clearest nights. You came out of this net, or
scrap, of metal. You refuse the void’s asylum. You refuse the
void’s dress. You even refuse to
feel its fabric, knowing its pressure on your white eyes.
You cancel the void.

You
maybe think you can observe its rituals as a tourist. You could even
sketch it and say Here I am, back again among you, marked by the
void, still covered by its sprinkling of fresh water. You think,
then, about saying that your passing through the void is covered with
ripe fruit. With puddles brewing the leaves’ bitterness. You would
like to say that you dug its waves or pruned its roads.

You’re
sure, now that the frost has grasped us, that the lights do not talk
anymore. That the mist won’t raise ever again. That the void has
passed.

You
nestle inside the curtains.

How
healthy is the cold you say. How can one tame the void? What has
neither leaves, nor roads, nor tools. Will you deny this passing? Or
will you reasonably exploit it, tying its rings to other glass ideas?
Will you show that chain around you neck, with pride?

Now
that the frost has grasped us. Moving can’t
be. The statues become
silent. Lightness slips out as a trickle of water, so tepid it scares
you. You don’t dare drawing from it to dilute your powders, plaster
or dust or poison.

By
the white absorbed, now that the frost has grasped us.