Then they baptized me with dirt and I became fit to smell the perfumes of the world.

I am constructing the map of my solitude by tracing my kisses on your thighs.

The tree vanished today. They said before that: it won’t heal you, but if you believe in it, it will protect you.

These poems are the hymns I failed to memorize in childhood.

*

The moon, being the ultimate voyeur, watches nothing. My wound is the trees. I sit quietly and study Marxism.

The architect constructs our shadows. We create a night without aesthetics.

The revolution calms down. We learn to be contained by the world. I am finally able to administer your absence.

*

This is for you, and for nothing. The erotic is awaiting. It is in the description and in the yard grass.

Postmodernism is the trees. We walk into a garage. Jesus multiplies in the corners.

The PDF format is romantic. We use it to talk about the revolution and to say that we own our breakfast.

We entered several museums in order to weep. Yes, we have been expanding our usage of lingerie. Every silence is different.