Enter my world,
your very presence,
changes everything.
Potentials and propensities
merge, mould, into: 
she is not a fixture,
she is a fitting
in my world,
She flutters, flings, flummoxes,
acquires the shape of the word.
eyes sparkle — 
as I burn the last volume
of poems.
Eternal signs sigh over the ashes.
Letters tell of nightmares,
stone slabs become monster-statues
created by a disturbed pattern of thought,
like water poured into a jug
mixes with wine - 
a gruel for the solitary soul
takes on a beauty of its own
hastens again towards the word,
penetrating the wilderness of the I..
Darkness disturbs the images
of night
shows me
the no-boundaries of the terror we face.