one chews daily
any time
the distances between that and this
in the middle, interfering, being both bridge and fissure,
there is one, holding on to the nails on both coasts,
in this here and now that are impossible,
in that capturing word that unhinges every vanguard of the dream
in this absurd wind where the heavens nest, chew
one daily the propensity to remain empty,
indisposed of reflexes, exploited of words and words,
that's what I am, that's what we are, maybe the cracks and bridges,
vague interference between God and the dead
understood as that and this,
and one in the middle like the cuzquito that sees the caraú go by
and lick with desire
thrown at the feet of an existence of its own
irretrievably alien.