wThe last house before Spain ww21 July 2009

We were in the last house before Spain,
rolling the maze this way and that,
seeking fissures and melting stones,
in shapes and exits of pleasure

Our white silence was an invitation,
its colourful vacuum an obvious
reason for deferring once more
the cool emptiness of choice

Both of us witnessed the clean page,
and were afraid of inherent error,
not believing that crushed and virgin
pulp could be this honest

We concealed certain cards of self,
becoming open and more complete
without tricks, and wondered why
we had waited so long