Silences

I hold in the palm a handful of sand of silences, imprinted on the cloth of black light.
That's it.
The mirror doesn't crack and the strip remains uncertain under the call of the eagle.
Flageolets of love don't flow anymore in the reflex of iced profiles, lifeless. Invisible.

I miss the poetry but, slowly, I taste in the fingertips my trickle of peace.