INVISIBLE ARTS

You who sing all my deaths.
You who sing what you don’t trust
to the dream of time,
describe the house of emptiness to me,
tell me about those words dressed in coffins
that inhabit my innocence.

With all of my deaths
I surrender to my death,
with fistfuls of childhood,
with drunk desires,
that didn’t walk under the sun,
and there’s no early-rising word
that gives death reason,
and there isn’t a god for dying without a grimace.