Slowly the glass, half filled, half
melting down for a slipper
not yet hardened into light
is flickering the way a moon
still sets itself on fire
then changes into taking its time
and you become an old woman
with a cane, around and around
as if this rim at last remembers
overflows and from a single wave
you grasp for air, for a warm hand
and step by step covered with ashes.
You tug at a rope that never dries
though all there is is a rag
over and over hung in the open
listening between two bell towers
where every word is in the plural
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