Poema de Paul Auster (13)

Other of I: or sibling
axe of shadow, born bright
where fear is darkest -I breathe
to become your whetstone.
Rasping, as of sparks
that keen, as from mire, waves
of sedge that bristle upward
in the hot morning -we would grow
to become part
of such things. Invisible 

at last, as this blood is, buried
under loss that knit
to scars. As the unaborted
who will breathe with us,
standing in the glare
of this lewd and figment sun.