in an age where there’s too much of everything and too little of everything, where spear
fights

are not ended, although thoughts, not objects, are the most frightening,
we are more polluted than waters, breath, meat are polluted.
there is irony, a reciprocity of cosmic constitution, my eye does
turn like a sphere on the top of a needle, I do move along diagonals.
I’m waiting for rain, waiting for your voice the indicator, dreaming of a cotton’s blossom.
in an age where Jesus is an advertising and commercial product, the pose of the cross,
I’m considering the possibilities for playing. I’m forgetting there are crowds who
don’t know that the mirage of blood is stronger than blood itself. in an age of points,
incessant addition, multiplication, they peel meanings off words as
easily as they pull down houses, homes, and the fragile awareness of oneself.
in an age of developing allergies, ways of helping, rights and simultaneous
denials. in an age of one-second connections that cut physical distances,
that reduce the value of getting closer, girls and boys are thinning to blades of grass,
the poor blow up balloons, condoms, and lips; in an age of fleeing
to other planets, when instant eternal life is on every shelf,
I’m looking into you; I’m waiting for a change in the colour of your eyes
as well as in the angle; for you to meet me in the bulletproof space.
in an age where intimacy has the status of an endeared species, I’m inviting you over,
to a white night, to a wet day, to dreams or a myth that doesn’t oxidise, M***,
to a bond that you don’t cut when cutting the umbilical cord. to our axis.