I lost a poem
born on this morning of returns.
It's disappeared like so many agile ideas,
like, sleep in sleep.


Losing the verse has scented the feeling,
the precise formula for transcribing
a heartbeat, an instant, a whisper...
and this prosaic world, fast and boring,
laughs with laughter at my pain.


I have lost a poem, no doubt,
the best poem this useful hand has
ever written.