every year
swing in my mouth and I do not know if I go north or south
or if I sink into an hourglass right
is that each hour is crumbling like a loaf
on the table in silence
and I can only see the gray-blue iris
horizon circling over an area
this can not be true, however, to raise
I can also view
spot rust that leaves the ride
of the constellations on the tablecloth albo
thought to be corrugated as if a
unsustainable weight pushed him to the consternation and chaos
still and the calm of the storm sewer in
I do not panic and let me flow rivers of sperm
and dreams that go beyond joining
existence as if he could survive for as long a lineage
made of dust and oblivion rumor
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