Shutdown
and the dark
(that misses you)
begins to move the furniture.
How is that usefull to me,
then,
multiply the cigarette,
count the stitches to the clock?
Resigned,
I lift the pillow
to hear better
your incessant heart,
to see my eyes
shrunk
in your magnifying eyes,
to go packing
the one you grew up with
the sneezes of summer on the run,
monochrome afternoons,
the crisp dew
that jeweled the sheets.
(If now we could spell
smoky gestures at the table,
coffee and jam phrases,
sleepy tableware words
vibrated by an enameled cock ...)
But it is no longer time;
the dawn is atomized in proclamations
and the joy of others grows offensively.
It is no longer your time
nor mine,
on this unstoppable downhill
to go unraveling
until we fall from history.