Our steps mark bisectrices,

apparently random,
contained in the brief angle that we are.
To leave that figure is to change structure,
body, skin.
How many times have we suffered
identical scars, traced moons,
bodies that danced in the night
and that seemed invincible, unspeakable,
naked, furious, how many times
we swallowed fire and then fell silent.
How many times the but closed our lips.
How many times we walked in
inevitable circles. How long does life measure,
the candle, the absurd match of the name.
Am I perhaps an angle X, in the territory
that I walk I mark small bisectrices
that repeat and repeat and mean
nothing. Not for that reason is life less charming
, not for that reason will I lose faith
in changes.