The one who begins this poem won’t be the same as the one who will end it. 
Already fifteen minutes have passed since I wrote those lines.
I take my shirt off. 
The day is getting warm.
Yesterday I learned two words: 
Geheim, which is German for secret. 
Temem, which is Arabic for plenitude. 
In a few hours a hundred million people who do not speak the same language will gaze at the last eclipse of the millennium. 
Bonheur, what a beautiful word when formed by the mouth of a French Buddhist. 
Didn’t I tell you words should be emptied like a vessel?
didn’t I tell you I loved Schroedinger’s cat?
Kept for days in a closed box the cat can either live or die, but until we look, it is neither dead nor alive. 
Next question. 
Ask me what light feels like, at the instant when it falls. 
The one who ends this poem is not the same as the one who will stand accused and be forced to deny it.
Can sorrow be weighed in gravitons? 
Is fear genetic?
Does the soul know it exists? 
Does it echolocate its way in this world, looking for an exit? 
The inferno that we form by being together. 
I use these words to keep from looking away, ensorcelled by the radiantly mortal, but with zero yearning. X = wonder, vivid under the spell’s recurring question: 
Peut-on Naitre-mourir? 
Lust kills joy.
Instantly: half glass fully empty. 
Diamond cusp,
Be beautiful, brief, and blinding.