Maybe, maybe, maybe
the shadow comes to repair waves,
to count screws and motorboats,
a shadow which draws
a shadow which does not dream.
Maybe, maybe, maybe
maybe the night is cross-eyed,
flapping its black bones
like fire stones,

reaching a spark to bask in the dark
surrounding it.
Maybe, maybe, maybe
I lost the rails,
answers, seasoning,
but I preserve this hand
which caresses the porcupines
and the sailor gazes among the sails
in backbeat,
and an onion blade.