the face is always a lonely thing
we can deceive with our hands
carrying anything: freesias
books
a bag of potatoes
but the face
like the moon
is a lonely thing,
we can pretend carrying bricks on our backs
or in our souls
which at this stage of life I suspect are the same thing
a back only bends when the soul is already heavy on it,
tomorrow I'll go around the sun again as the cool people say
I call it a birthday because I'm fed up with the good vibes,
but I was saying something else, I said
for example
that before I really liked dogs and not very much cats
today the pleasure is equal because I no longer throw myself on the ground
let myself drool over the dog like when I was little,
I said that one can get lost in the crowds
like in that Poe story and even be those crowds
be all at once
be all at the same time
be in an angry mood or softly like a guy who
even gets the final shot with grace,
I'm reading Swedish literature
and I'm feeling a pain here, right here, where my
parents should be, that place hurts like a bad intestine
because sometimes, you know, it doesn't matter if everyone dies
misery of many consolation of people who are content with a
flat existence like the roadrunner when it falls off the cliff, my daughters are always poking around in my eyes
they take the trash off me, they make me smell less bad,
but I started, and I don't know why, talking about the face
which is always a solitary thing
a palm tree forced into the sidewalk of some guy
who, to show his part, gives the landscape the exoticism of
the strange. and I say:
love is a patio where one can go to sleep without
fear of being devoured by a spider. nothing more. and nothing less, of course.
To finish, a beginning: the face, like the mirror, like the moon,
like the grave, like laughter when reading Don Quixote,
is a solitary thing
the hands in their paraphernalia of fingers can leave us in doubt.
not the face, the eyes even less.
the eyes of a man are the lights that flicker
also solitary
in a deserted street once the procession has passed
and the wind of dawn pushes
the empty knob of snow
towards the storm drains. but be careful
this
is nothing, it is a poem written like this, to the one you were raised in,
because the only thing I came to say is that
the face
is a thing, unequivocally, solitary.