Grafenauer Niko:
The Solitude

Black solitude, cool forehead.

behind it gathered higher

than obliteration so alone, without memory

to drown in white.

farness, stretched to the light allures

towards finality.

flames of never appeased satiety

in an open coronal cup of shedding days,

though space is lasting, what enormity

of never ending fading in the air!

weight, dispersed to poppy seeds of moments,

is cumulating in the bodily tight

embrace of years, weight,

plasmatically spilled into the day, now

and here, over the bream that holds what is,

to the brink, is being

a bottomless abyss, measured

with a plumb of pain?

a wound gazing to a wound, an eye to an eye.

what wakefulness opening the eyelids!

is my blood blending with your pulse

within one circulation?

a farewell, felt by feelers stretched out

towards the lost, and within the soul, twice erased

height of the call with no fulfillment. under the dark

skies of the past in a halo, encircled

by Psyche longer than the light of a candle.

the murmur, gathered with intent to withhold what

the silk reveals, gently folded in distancing.

when will

the black-rimmed dawn appear, or a skylark, along with

a nightingale’s song? two lumps of gravity in expecting bosom,

yet the voice with plagal wings is to the skies returned.

in gaping air, the riddle mutely hangs: its shadow facing daylight,

but towards the night it is hopingly spread

over the unanimous fall of two lives

into romejuliet’s embrace.

is there still anywhere more absence held in hands

so tightly joined?

on the lips a whisper drawn in a rime of semivowels,

translucent of imperfection, but for the living

a requiem, preserved for eavesdropping never ended.

in it, between the wrinkles,

hidden from the sight, lastingly shines a sorrowful tear

(carbon crystal’s clearest water),

stuck with valences into soft stygian velvet.

an eye, reaching out of life to eternity,

with the look of the light years -

you but to perfection with the word:

Elisheba.

the time behind the eyelid stored:

immer und nimmer.

by fortuitous flesh grown into now:

ichundich, filled up to the throat

with the tears of eros.

added to death: a deafmute verse,

tasted on the lips.

pressed into the being’s pressure what is and is not,

high, without egress. ever-

lasting weight, lulled towards the earth.

are the dreams from underneath another azimuth assembling?

neither a trap nor an exile, endlessly

within secluded circles.

a solution, trodden by the steps that follow

the nascent death in water, softly shaded

Neben-

leben.

between to come and to go, equationally interspaced

I-and-I.

how much in between collected into days!

where am I? the truth is even barer than bare,

and the nought is perfect: beyond the words

that keep my voice within themselves.