As the wind spells /a/g/o/n/y/,
a heavy coat of night seals the streets.

The End is near sing the houses,
their husbands at every window.

The silence, wide as a corner,
prays to be crushed forever.
Obsession (perfection).

Near is the End, say yes
whispers an imaginary savior.

Heading straight
towards the port’s tingling sounds
steps softened by tender soles,
Visions, at last, beyond frontiers
(really nothing).

Here is the End etches the moonlight
strange after all, with its disowned white.

There is icy water on the bench,
and the ground was slippery under same soles.

On the edge, watching, watching still
the lonesome black liquor,
hesitating on the distant rocks.

Move back a little, uncertain. Walk home.

The End was near, all over again.