Who,
if not you,
could love me
when I become a dragon
and flakes appear on the neck
pustules on the skin
and hair on the legs?

Who,
if not you,
would ever love my lies
and my spits?

Sometimes
when you rest your chin in the palm of the hand,
you could have a woman's name.

You gaze as if looking into infinity
- or as if being blind-
and you get sad
and I feel that it is like to love yourself,
as if your hand were my hand
and your eyes were the same eyes
- sad -
that spin inside my sockets.

Wednesday.

Today won't be a great day.
A couple of books will make me love
while traveling by car
with the sun melting the windows.
Later,
someone will phone
asking for Marlena,
Greta,
Clara,
or Sofia,
And I'll say "you're wrong,
Does it rain in New York?
I feel like stepping in puddles".
Then, at night,
both sides of the pillow
will be hot,
the bladder will begin to ache
just when I start dreaming of you,
and I'll hear my father snoring,
dying,
in the next room.

Lolita.

How blue veins are
behind you infantile knees,
dirty of scars
and irregular reliefs never kissed.
How sad.

How blond your down is
in your full moon thighs,
How little firm,
how trembling,
how reflected.

How sweet your mouth is,
how made of chocolate the corners
of your sunny lips.
How little adult,
still.
How Loli -
ta.

Kisses covered my feet in mud.

I did not want kisses.

Not kisses from the past, not kisses of others,

not your kisses either.

Kisses rained the earth.

Someone talked about lips, I closed my mouth,

and I said nothing of stars.