Pleased, clung to my neck, sweaty and absent and never mine, that woman got dressed. I thought: she’ll forget me, I’ll forget her. But I couldn’t forget. And the fear? Fear is a lizard that peeks about. A spectre. A past of corks and nights. Ruins. The gaze is a twilight. the gaze is a miracle and orange clouds, and red and yellow. Whales knew it, dolphins knew it, the other fishers knew it. I knew it, but the rain, the rain. Today it’s still raining. From my room I lay out the day, I traverse the night and shrink in the hands of someone or something (the dog’s hands, the bitch ’s hands, the ant’s, the rain’s, the rooster’s, the well’s, the brother’s, the hands of the woman, naked, surrendered, dying). then the bridge goes down and the eyelids fall. The gaze is twilight. Labyrinth and straight line, circle and minotaur. Something tells me that those mouths I yearn for will never come back, that the broken lips don’t bleed anymore. I won’t see them again. The gaze is miracle. Vagabonds. Vagabond the word. 32 Only the perverse die with their eyes open, my mother said once. I wandered in fear and as a lamb for several moons and feared everything since then, for I knew all too well that in death my eyes would remain open 71 39 BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE Beside the books, an old photograph. A blue chair cover the nude body. The legs, the smile of the left tit, the knee, the ankle, the firm foot on the ground. Musical angel. It rained that day. Angel without god and without devil, wingless and alone. (Musical rain, rain without god and without devil.) Musical angel surrendered to the lens, surrendered not to space, neither to time, surrendered to my eyes, to what remained of my eyes.