I don’t pull the blinds up
I mutated into the same grey of everything
I hide in the obscurity of the windows
until the last nylon bag
thrown over the mosaics.
which evenings would those hands remember
seducers of the little girl under the table
your chest like the wild animal
masticating my ankles
I will not leave your image nor the nausea
nothing returns
what that not your chest
nor the tobacco alleviating the sour
taste in the throat
which evenings would those hands remember
your mouth didn’t want to know of scars
reneged my wound.
I do not switch the lights off
I will know how to hide the footprints of your teeth.
Something is lined up for me
in your table for peeling peaches
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