truth

Relating anguish is obvious,

So I will be brief,

and quiet,

And perhaps the world will continue

With its triumphs and teatimes.

An absence has drowned inside me

And from it has poured a watchful ghost,

A gentle child in the night,

Who keeps me from sleep.

I go out in the dark and paint this town blue,

At the quiet command of this ghost.

We drink from tiny teacups,

Play midnight parlor games,

Toasting to the acupuncture of the sun.