sometimes thirst is a coat,
a tall house with windows that overlooks a pier
and to him tied, standing, eight or nine boats
and a gray set of horizons
that alternate the navel of light
kindly wounded by inexplicable nostalgia
of inexplicable longings, of clouds that are stranded
right above the tall house with windows that overlooks a dock,
someone walks barefoot a nearby road
will never return, his voice is no longer a voice but a hand
that closes slowly on the cervix and shakes
and you see how they fall to the floor like ripe plums
the inadmissible equation of days and nights.
sometimes thirst is a coat,
other times it's just
a way not to forget where we are
exactly.