Love as an evening state

The paper being filthy
a pirouette I want
to find next to the door’s entrance
and signs of silence in a principled posture
under your words,
frightened but soft…

I begin to decipher the code of suffering,

reminiscences of my daily vagrancy
can you find (but are you looking?) a marionette
slurping from its hands, doglike?
can you stretch your hand forward? (does it mean a little? a lot?)
to feel the cloth of which her face is made of
and the knots inside the cotton wool filling up her legs?

I must write – to come up close to her sedimentary state

not to cry, no, do not cry…
Better ask yourself, yes, that’s it:
are you ready to retract now
one gesture or another of the gestures you wish
you never made.

Why? Who is asking? Who do you ask? Are you asking?

I would fill a whole page with
question marks, to make up for my lack of answers,
for the unbalance and
other natural gifts, better known by poets as loneliness.

The paper?

I expect it to be rumpled, even torn to be, because
I know: it won’t stay indifferent
to my insistent attacks… I know!

The pirouette is understood as

a form of disdain
and the signs of silence
you assert from the new reflexes of lying,
a pursuing match without conclusions, and
the finale ensues, like we always predicted:
a very small room, a lit up space though,
like a waiting room, not big enough for
your life or mine,
but for honesty is enough.