He placed a bet on the fragility of the outer cover.
Into the post box he dropped the fragile envelope
in which poems were kept.
They would be covering the harsh distance
as well as enforcing compliance with the death
of all certitudes, the imprecision
of the addresses, the not so clear outlines
of memory, the babbling of someone
who is still looking for the music
that inhabits, that must inhabit the end
of the journey. In an ocean of letters,
reckonings and tax returns, he dropped
the poems written during those years
disturbed by a dark current
in which pain was nevertheless absent,
as if he had conquered the lyrical distance,
the plumb line of a life
as condemned as any other.
He then mingled with the afternoon
crowds along the avenue, and his day