it’s burning
behind and below,
papers and eyes
when this smoke rises up like
missing the point, a surprise,
which I can see in your place,
your beautiful place,
where I can be porn I can be
what I do not want to be:
boring be:
I want to being, to freeing
to puking,
I want to inserting to consuming to finish,
and then taking a breath
to bake again, slowly,
just in time for that time in which there is no
time for, just time-in,
just some miles more,
without finishing, always on the verge of
coming, like while you do so –
or you do not –
like before the morning
in which there is no morning for –
a poem for all the moments in which there is no
enough beauty
for us all.