The girls with their dolls
they become entirely one
inside the other's womb
and some decide not to be born
they stay on the side of pain
—Like a stranded ship
in the roadstead,
an object of memory between the
decomposition-,
and then the dolls
ramify their silence within you,
a mushroom that sprouts and deforms.
Like a recovered factory, the language
it's the hole in the garden tree
that they planted to commemorate
a false birth.
