Did i tell you i was his muse
for a year and a couple of cigarettes...

You should stray from what I invent:
small clouds of sisal...

The adjectives come toward you,
whispering things beneath my heart...

Manoel died
and the world...

What is this thing
stopping my hand midair...

Made of wounds we are
and nobody ever tried to save...

She became a hymn, a solemn something
after the indescribable understanding...

The black veins of the day
pulse deep inside...

A poem should be written
when our hands are sweating...

In that part of the world,
the sky is in exile...

The infinite, radiant IS
slept...

I get this feeling
and anything can happen...