SHAPE OF ABSENCE XIII
The night, a motionless stony darkness,
shuts its eyes and mouth. Its hand can’t
extend, its leg can’t move; everything
is built of thick darkness. Only the small
marble cross with your small name
shines in the night, white trunk of a fell tree,
and the white juice of memory that rises inside it
makes its tender branches stir,
along with the letters of your name.
Manolis 