I create no thing. I am no shaman.
I own no family. I do not attract
dear friends; I haunt strangers like a phantom,
a tantalising ignis fatuus,
a fatal fata morgana or a forked
flash in a filmy, fuzzy cheval-glass.
A drop of water, a naked X-ray,
barely the tickle of a fleeting cloud,
a syllable it is apt to elide,
on trite tongues absent from every bouquet,
I am a fragrance heedlessly forgotten;
not a vision but an hallucination
of a black hole maudit and manqué,
a chimera of a mirage of a void,
a figment glimpsed then invisible,
a dirge doomed to a funereal fade.
Am I post mortem or ante partum?
Am I impossible or possible?
I lie ideally in oblivion
while seeming really specious, risible.