In the arms of the night, black butterflies dance. Here, the pattern of silences between the bird’s exclamations were the river and my lover. Her body is without location; it is pointing, naked of nomenclature and sign. It is that which pointing is, and even the act disappears in comparison.

In the eyes of the night, a nameless thing is hunting. It has no eyes: blackness is the body of its sight. Its way of seeing through time is as flying is to traversing space. I am chasing it chasing me, and who succeeds is a grave matter.

This mode of vacancy is indescribable, but let me say that if my finger traces a pattern in the blackness, there is a spark; a brief moment of strange music, and I disappear completely. In a leaf-like pattern, my history dissolves backwards from my immediate absence. I can almost see the moments where each possession or relation is jettisoned into perfect emptiness. All the little traces of me, fading slowly backwards into the onset of her kiss. There’s nothing left, except for you to realize how the key is hid precisely… there. And, nearby, its child.