Am I a gem wrapped in cotton balls,
or a worm, inside the flesh of an apple,
a blossom on a white canvas,
a distending stain on a blank sheet
or a white bloom on an apple bough?
Am I a masterpiece of art,
a paintbrush
that metamorphoses
to so many inclinations of form?
Which side of these slammed door am I standing,
which side of these plunging knives
stabbed
into the back of dictions
to improvise words?
Does this autumnal path recognize me?
These melancholies that feel been here forever?
Or does it recognise the incantation, the same fascination
that repeat in different wondring eyes?
have these unwritten inscription complete all these ranges of emotion?
Am I only the temporal conveyor of the same load of emotios?
Am I in the park or on the treadmill of a space
that like a role of film only repeats the same cycle, the same orbit
upon the different screens?
Is this spiral, a snail shell,
or a staircase, or a roll of hose trapped forever between
centripetal and centrifugal motions?
