here

what happens to soap in the end? it never suddenly disappears, no matter how much you subtract from it; always remains what it was in the beginning: a slippery character.

the soap, pared down to its final form, shaped by human hands into its elongated form of longing; the water that fish like so much, cascading down like a rainbow; the mirror a place for recollection and gatherings, where one is two; the spotted, tarnished mirrors of our lives, dimly aware of our thinner faces, as if in a dream. the heart, like a mirror, can be polished, the sufis say. the coldness around our warm bodies; the coldness of our northern-starred hearts, the spangled stars free, beyond the frontiers, the spaces of distinction; the words you never said. here, then, for the stars in your eyes.

'Here
is the world
of all things'

of absences, too. into the moon, then. who lives in the moon but a clown? the logic of the world was against you, friend. your heart skipped a beat, your mind failed to read the plot and you missed your train. better to be late in this world, Ubo said. re-trace your steps, finally. how did you get here again?

words clipped, speech faltering. say what needs to be said, for Christ's sake. speak, a word in your dark- timbre way, the word full of shadows, the word that randomly falls my way, or that precedes the directionless morning light, true or false, spoken in your sleep, in haste,in the heat of the moment, in jest.

i give you my word. don't build anything around it, and don't use a dictionary or a square mirror to plumb it. it falls, it falls, just like a fish, the water,a dream, a heart, a rainbow, the moon, your hands, your steps.

here.