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.

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