Always the novelty of loneliness. Here, abdominal force. The center is hollow. The branches of my trees are afraid. Here, my mother's impotency. The sea recedes into the first womb. I am the one who thinks, writes, suffers, before the path, amidst absence, the naked urgency of eternity. And You wave as if you had charted the possible escapes, the underground cycles of creation and loss. Outside, touch the skin of the world, edged with questions, the underground questions. It is more and otherwise than cross-fire. It speaks many tongues and it does not pass, it conflagrates the whole being, like angels, if Angels made love.
I might dive into dreams, stirring the World. Nowhere to go, not enough room to care of the crying bodies of mine... intimate soaring against the simple daily bread.
If all love secrets lead to an ultimate obstacle, a candle light, a sterile juice, a blurred dream, all at once planted at the psalms of unknown Life... I am against... You cannot vanish.
I never desired the details of foam around the strongest springs, my muscles cross several lifetimes, on returning from flashes of fullness, in love with the Idea of Infinity...
