Poetry

Seizing a chance in 
a trice, in one dark September 
night of apotheoses- 
 
a bird crashed in my 
lap. I would not know 
the virginity of the strange surrender. 
 
The windows were tall, 
with the black laces violating 
the sovereignty of light. 
 
I will not know you, will 
not call the black magic, 
will not transcend the body. 
 
The white lilies were 
staring down at water. 
Was the dawn nearby?