The grinding sound of a secret
at our window,
a secret too quiet to be inquired into;
we face the rhythm of its countenance
in the weightless dark,
it stands and hovers at the same time
and we look for cheekbones on the pomegranate flowers
and let the sun-drenched stones rest;
we have let ourselves get lost
somewhere over there
in the looming breath of leaves and stalks,
there's an absence we cherish
with the dissolved consistency of our day,
we know now we can only listen at last
and ask nothing
and fly,
because we need to fly
to reach the vibrating
unbounded stillness of sleep.