Incognito, the clock, with its monotony,

passes by banging its itinerary

in a parade that is heading towards forgetfulness;

and it seems like your hands that labour,

like your feet restricted to a pinprick,

like your eyes that do not have the right to dream.

I insist in staying.

And meanwhile the stone with its granulometry

and its tenacious monopoly of hard memory,

soundlessly consolidates its musculature

in the coarse exercise of the concrete;

you scream and you startle the world:

you interrupt the mystery of the palaces

and there, frightened, they close their eyes

and expectorate upon whatever you could be.

For your confession with the lament

there is a postulate in target shooting:

the unpopulated stomach of the spoons

can corrode the thick bars of the universe

and standardize the gold and the crystal of the lamps.

And like a pendulum that licks the breeze,

for you there is what was:

a great silence

and that is all.

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Silence. Montreal: The Muses Co., 1992

ISBN 0-919754-41-4 & ISBN 0-919754-40-6