we've had enough emotion
there is no room that has not been
touched by music
also, who doubts, we have ordered the same room
rationally enough
with spatial logic, and with common sense,
no one in their right mind would think of placing the nightstand in
half of the bed,
then the circumstance of tearing from the shadows less
remote from everyday life an infallible replacement
to emotivism and the thinking bone, but which one? yes suddenly,
like a door slam or a light burnt out, we see in our hands the
neat technique that the order of life left there as if
was the stiff corpse of a bird.
the children, the parents, everything will go away one day, the desire will go away one day
and then, empirically we will take the thread of things and
we'll pull her, emaciated, smiling, in love once
more of ourselves, we'll say what's up, how did it go
in this infamous, tasty, ruthless wonderful roulette that is
existence, we will open -as every response- the mouth of
wide open
and we will separate the ambiguous name of love into syllables. I am then a surplus of myself,
everything that I did not write down in any agenda of actions that cannot be postponed.
uncertain outcome
not predictable.
volatile thistle on the edge of a cosmos not born to
conform scribes of the neat investiture of the days.
I am then the desired non-target of my
imperfect calculations.
even if it seems like an unforgivable lie
I am in love with the lover that I am.
what's left of me I'm gathering
I lie on myself loving perhaps loving
my surplus.