you drink a beer
without memory
I look out the window
silence surrounds us -
I can't decide: is it
a casket or a hatchet
we are stuck inside wor(l)ds
without seeds

the moon has died in a poem
overused and forlorn
its avatar is rising
in blazig pixels and scorn

we are at this threshold
one foot in the moon
the subtelty of dying will be
presented on Zoom

Godot isn't coming but
I am waiting too

sometimes
I understand only  the texture of your words,
the distance of your skin
you curse the silence waiting to be heard
you count the hours of toil like one counts lithium pills
you empty yourself of nothingness
desire links the margins of time
sometimes you make the proverbial schnitzel you remember
how good the *** was on the dining room table
I feel  the bruise of steps, the tiredness of patience
the sharp edges of thought, the easiness of laughter
I keep on dreaming myself going out of the night
somewhere inside the purity of limits like a blade
there is this feeling of you, round
like the time that exhausts its depth
the echo of tears gets lost in your hands,
sometimes

the surface of the cooking table
the edges of the air
the clarity of a blank page
your shivering skin
the tenderness of tears
the discipline of screaming
the eroticism of fingers
the yoke of the ramen soup
the confessions of dance
the blindness of power
all these and their forgetting
hijack the world
from falling into itself

I carry your hands like waves breaking on the skin
your eyes get flammable like capsicum on innocent tongue
I have long conversations with this boiling sea
the sea bears the roundness of the moon
the moon reveals its wounds
the wounds shed their skins to feed
an undiscovered earth

the fullness of words in your mouth
my trembling hands
a truth cuts deep
into the ribs of morning
it's the big bang of language
when silence has no shadow

I feel time running like a wild animal tnrough my body
the air might hide from itself in the frenzy of an embrace
the molecules of emotion create the music of muscles, of spheres
I watch this momentum of life unfolding, rising and decreasing
passion feeds the wind, the waters, the eartquakes, it dances on liminal edges
bound and unbound the pulse of creation, of destruction
I am so very quiet, as quiet as the retina that translates the light
when the light touches you my optic nerves get burned but look
how strange,
I see further away into the clarity of hands