(after Sorescu, by you)
At night,
I stop looking at things.
They don’t mind.
Nothing needs me
to hold up the sky.
Gravity is very strict.
In dreams,
I use recycled thoughts
to move through houses
I haven’t lived in,
with people
who didn’t ask
to be imagined.
Light doesn’t enter,
but the edges still cut.
When I wake up,
the world unfolds again,
as if it had been doing something important
without me.
Hadn’t it perhaps?
Ceteris Paribus 