is like awakening from a long sleep on the beach, with eyelids
charred and salty fingers.
The sun's rays fall like marble dust, and in your head
ruffling someone rowing against the tide waves,
cataracts clouding your eyes with previous thoughts,
rigid faces, tears in a glass jar.
It is perfectly aligned
seven years that passed as a fluid gear
of the jaw bone and blood to the skin.
And how one evening in a split second
in which you closed your eyes to spend your life as if through a microscope
inside a telescope,
did you know: the winding stem, the
compliant membrane tip carefully kept you on the ground, broke
. The words you write
obey the last letter: "We were so happy," and then
"tiny shock," smooth and perfect words, cutting
emerge as nails, pulseless without ridges,
with static and stationary echo those who intend to dominate the pain
through syllables. Then come verses
stuck a knife
and exposed to the fire.
poems where to draw the road map of your life, your shortcuts and gutter
beyond the insects that would die on the windshield.
and think: I could love if
that time again where I started to hate you. Might have changed something insignificant
site and all fit, use
claws or vertebrae
to turn life into a monument to life. And then you'll be cleaning a gun
for seven years.
You'll be opening a raw fish and feeling disgust.
You'll be making love under a cloth.
you see when you close your eyes, and also to open
reading backwards as in a mirror. ______________________________________
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