And your absence teaches me

                                           what art could not

                                                    ~ Daniel Weissbort

I didn’t weave, I didn’t knit

I started writing and erasing

under the weight of logos

since the internal pain obstructed

the writing of the perfect expression.

And since absence is the point of my life

— absence from life —

tears and the natural anguish of the body

that is deprived appear on paper.

I erase, I rip, I strangle

the loud screams

where are you, come, I wait for you

this spring isn’t like others

and I start again at dawn

with new birds and white bed-sheets

drying in the sunshine.

You will never be here

to water the flowers with the hose

that the old ceilings would drip

heavy from the rain

and my persona would be

dissolved in yours, quietly


your splendid heart

— splendid since I chose it —

will always be somewhere else

and using words I’ll sever

the threads that tie me

with a particular man

for who I long

until Odysseus becomes symbol

of Nostalgia

and sails the seas

in everybody’s mind.

I forget you passionately

every day

that you’ll cleanse yourself of the sins

of sweetness and smell

and totally clean you’ll enter

the realm of immortality.

This job is hard and joyless.

My only reward to finally understand

what’s human presence

what’s absence

or how the ego functions

in such desolation, in such long time

that nothing stops the tomorrow

the body always renews itself

gets up and goes to bed

as if someone chops it

sometimes sick, sometimes in love

hoping that

what loses in touch

it gains in substance.