Two bodies bound by wires make a pastime of the calendar,
A room without windows offers us night as long as we want
y painkillers on the table, books on the floor, clothes asking for petrol
Hands in the dark room take on the idea of day happening outside;
The corner café of a small town, an old Indian woman
Looks at us, questions our morals, sells us a song of bad food.
The body lying besides itself. No expectation. This
armless chair happens to be our fort, we tear at each other like participants
in a masquerade of my tongue between the spaces no one goes.
At the tip of your tongue you offer me the tenth tablet of the minute.