What is that light that seeps into my bed?
Surely someone has the answer (many surely do), but the wet and burning sex like a peeled tangerine in the middle of a dust storm that pulls the afternoon from the roof of the house and moistens the cool muzzle of the same skinny cat that meows and purrs in the painful heartbeat of longing and desire because you cannot overcome the rough doubt of the correct word to express the most tangled question of guts, heart, and lung that you have had until today and all these light and happy years (do not evoke that Thursday or that March of fasts and tears, do not wander through the memory of childhood or impure youth..., it has been so long since you wanted to merge with the dust, forget that dark voice and those wounds that have neither scar nor image in your past, there is no longer doubt in your voice)
Was that the blow here,
that buried nail
and the lost blood?
There is no scar, only skin on skin.
Skin today and tomorrow to eat the tangerine
and then,
what was the light?
You do not know and it is better this way,
it is better this way...
