Almost Young

The colours of the wound stand in front of me

Next to the tangled mysticism of the night

I stand next to them asleep on my feet

I am not aware of it while I dream I am awake

The clocks have no hours left at night

Or wisdom to detach the gypsies at dawn

The unborn children are born already

And too old to swear or make confessions

Desire, what do you want of me?

Except building the temples to carry

The winds of thought and dreams under your wings

And patch poems of disruption to my eyelids

The prophets of disbelief told me to

Leave nothing – absolutely nothing –but regret

But no regret occurs inside of me

Except to whisper the raw sun away