What can I offer you but the scraps of my lines? What can I do? I offer you my outlived nights, riddled with spoil and steeped in things desirable, for they are used to mystery and a darkening hemisphere. Dogged day brings me mere hated friends, purpled smoke and books I have depleted. The useless corners of repeated arcades swing over me, holding the sky as if to hold you in. Liking drowns at low tide. The floodgates opened, and big evening gushed with you. A word was enough to make your beauty ceaseless. My memory turns it, tosses it to the wave and runs for it like a dog. The pummeling dawn finds me in an empty part of my own city. I declaim you before the stray stars and dogs of the morning. I am on end in search of you. I must reach you, be afflicted with you, confabulate you in the evening' s scraps on the beggar's lip, gather you from the shards the cool mirrors tease me with. I offer to invent you.