At Dinner Time
I'll give away everything but my solitude, I inhabit it.
The earth is a rather convex place to roam, the horizon
rattles its sabers and aims them at the heart,
even further. Is the highway so long that it
crosses the edge of the earth, into a huge cauldron?
Now I'll mix the ingredients, root crops, bile, stock,
sinews and blood. Several sketches for tomorrow arise,
like brittle leaves on a silver platter.
The dinner is served, guests are many. Only one is
missing, as every night. Every poem is about