Do I felt again
the smiling tongue
Here my voice depicted
one minute of smoked souls
and then I fly again
to the rain shadow.
Inside this solitude
there’s a summer memory
trying to climb the horizon.
Here I had this shadow of my self
there I will pay the price of attention
and write false English poetry.
Is there a language greater than
episodic atoms of unloved heart?
Suddenly I must forget
everything against my clouds:
this verb and phrase is one of them
and I will never get enough scholarship
I will never understand what is
a single verse, a tiny piece of something
else than lovely inspiration.
What’s love? Where do we seek
the nude body of young women?
Everything could be different
but I wrote it like that and it’s wrong
again, it’s wrong and impolite.
This rudeness shines all around the table.
Then I smoke another cigarette.
It’s too late to unfold my message.
And I don’t know how to get out
of this density called identity.