My pit is similar to that of which they left.
I leave again, for my own pit. I confine
, contorted, thin
to move as a transit line.
Pull the excess. Wipe off the excess. Spitting. Reduce my structure
map to the minimum necessary.
So when you poke my head back, stretching the sovereignty
my lips,
reject the proposals of the circus and the tribes.
I said: I've given birth, I cut the cord, emancipated,
no tears I do not know, blood is not predictable, but the unbearable
trace of dirt accumulated
the fleeting vision of a sky of stars rent.
I wash with the language of a stunt flier.
will drink from the can where the dogs drink.
Image: Lucio Fontana, Concetto Spaziale, Attesa, 1967.
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