the day feels like a poem;
it is empty, slack-eyed, simulacra
disconnected from the flesh.

silence is trivial, it gets torn from
a fragment of the mouth.

a world now enchanted only by
a dreamy and barely recognizable event,
a world no longer grounded,
negates the meaning of words.
--

you are fascinated only with, at last,
recognition: something like poetry.

you release your dreams from
mimesis under the snow that covers
a suppressed trifle of sound.

you cry little tremors of curious drawings,
abundant foamy blue teardrops
drawn beyond the broken glass.
--

he still has hands
with which to touch her.

haunted beneath the snow,
covering their faces from
a multitude of television screens,
they mouth the silence.

their naked crawl a kind of arm
which conveys the damage,
blue bubbles dependent on
this strange motion.

they are translations of persons,
abstract fables melting away,
so afraid of becoming something.
--