Delicate strands of madness burn
like sulfur beneath the surface

sitting at the dinner table like wounds
without tourniquets

hanging from the windows like scars.

And the intimidating way death tries
to erase your shadow from the distance
of our faces

push our hearts
through the center of stones.

In this world without language
I ride like a question on an empty bus

drowning in the stillness
I saw reflected in your eyes -

postcards from all the places
you will never go.

And there are no destinations left for me
on this side of the Island of July-

this side of the wasteland of bitterness
this country of your hopeless goodbye.