MATRIX AND DREAM
Inaudible things, chipped
nightly away:
breath, underground
through winter: well-words
down the quarried light
of lullaby rill
and chasm.
You pass.
Between fear and memory,
the agate
of your footfall turns
crimson
in the dust of childhood.
Thirst: and coma: and leaf—
from the gaps
of the no longer known: the unsigned
message,
buried in my body.
The white linen
hanging on the line. The wormwood
crushed
in the field.
The smell of mint
from the ruin.
Paul Auster
