You walk inside yourself, and the tenuous, meandering reflection that

guides you

is not the last glance of your eyes before closing, nor the timid sun

that beats at your lids:

it is a secret stream, not of water but of pulse-beats: calls and answers

and calls,

a thread of clarities among the tall grasses and the beasts of the mind

that crouch in the darkness.


You follow the murmur of your blood through the unknown territory

your eyes invent,

and you climb a stairway of glass and water, up to a terrace.

Made of the same intangible material as echoes and clanging,

the terrace, suspended in air, is a rectangle of light, a magnetic ring

that wraps around itself, rises, walks, and plants itself in the circus of

the eye,

a lunar geyser, a stalk of steam, a foliage of sparks, a great tree that

lights up, goes out, lights up:

you are in the interior of the reflections, you are in the house of


you have closed your eyes, and you enter and leave from yourself to

yourself on a bridge of pulse-beats: