Days are the carcasses of time:
dead copies of how I hoped they would be
that piled up while I dreamed of freedom
and freedom dreamed of me. I am in love,
but I do not know with whom or what;
it is getting dark and once again
nothing and nobody has arrived.
Tomorrow I will leave this hopeless hope –
an unhappiness that does not know its name –
and cross the dry river, seeking
meaning in a meaningless world,
fresh and clear as the first gasp of oxygen.
Published in New Isles Press