The disgraceful gesture I do as I grab the pen while something stirs in the air: the skin of my body. Like when late today the lone arm, embraced me with a humble glory and his gurgling voice resembled a child’s who recited a heroic poem before execution. His hand with the chewed nails was inserted inside me, that I’d become movement of my internment. I stayed in touch with it and I finished each poem. I bring my desk and my papers to the new erotic landscape. I start writing. I start the small engine. On the third verse the new inspiration has overwhelmed me. I guess that he’s alive and he exhausts me. I start imaging more than what I do. My hands get sweaty. I put down the pen I wipe the three fingers that held it between my fat thighs. Creation is in full blast.