Heaven insists
covered or uncovered.
The sun insists.
Love insists
veiled or awake.
The dream insists.
Life insists
because death insists.
The verse insists.
The poem that has a name, beats
and go up
comes out
in droplets
the days
when your name rings
and each letter is you
giving birth,
coming out
from the dark background of my days.
You are place.
The place where i am now
writing to you,
naming you soft
the soft days,
when the year ends
to rename you the next,
tonight just
and that your name is form, yours,
sprouted from the words,
born with the day,
like the days
They are never the same
Nascent you arrive
and you are the day of days
today,
in the year
that has no names,
he is yours.
On the very edge of the last day
you are the poem with a name
And you arrive.