poetry is commonplace.
a factory. a structure.
a room in Sao Pablo or Delphi share corners,
they cannot not have corners, I imagine similar dirt,
twin spiders, something like poetry, apparently unique,
new and old lives, however, adjectives or connectors,
some happier, others poorly selected, are there
like cemeteries in big cities,
there is a wind or there is a river that always manages to shake off the
poetry pastoral. in the next centuries there will be new and good poets. they will ignore, unhappy, that, as one,
they will only be adding artificial cement to the already constituted
dusty building of the poem.
poetry is commonplace. a bar of megalomaniacs
where wine and food pass, literature passes
without looking up, bumping into chairs,
corners where once in a while a
cockroach gray saves the day of screens and gods.