FORETELLING

I will sit on the wooden threshold

of a door distant and all foreign,

with white arms stretched out on the knees.

The rain bites the hair,

mashes the mud,

and makes imprints over the world.

In this afternoon the clouds cannot cease.

With a gaze goose-skin and void

I will remember a different world

that from the dreams over and over

invites me and drains me,

where there is no distance,

where wind and time flow as one,

dense and thumping.

There I walk with naked hands

and no one comes back for me.

and that strange world

of mud, rain and threshold

does not return for anyone.