Write me into your lips. Me, the fragile truth. In the images, my language had become hostile: Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams.

And another day: Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. I read your lines. You, you. Over the rubble. You wrote no further.

At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

I love to wake up and see you wake up.

The movement on the surface would make the words disappear.