Nights are liminal;
mirrors of the darkest quality,
walking through which brings
—landscapes subliminal.

Not on your warm palm lies,
neither widens your irises.
Silently, it crawls in the feverish, mysterious mind,
in which memories start to expire,
leaving you at the mute dusk,
making your body transparent,
immobile.

In a room lit by a sizzling bulb,
guarded by innumerable church icons,
no one is there in you
to believe
in higher powers.

The reality, finite,
is and is not in the sizzling bulb.
That, too,
will be finite,
terribly soon.