as morning’s questions

My house I stole from certain obscure families of the dead.

Now, in the day, it dreams me like an exotic author’s dreams.

And I will be the wings of the clock, or the eyes of the lamp.

History absorbs the genies I emit within the questions I become.

When the dead came home, their houses were me.

Now, in the night, I dream them like an exotic author’s loves.

When we kiss, the sun rises, and only when our lips part

do the stars, once more, emerge upon the waves of the dark.