Suspension Points
Tiny movements, slow, stopped in the middle, vague
or careful, cut off words as you look aside. And you,
who turned to see the word that was cut, the hand that
was going toward the forehead or the lower lip, swollen
from the desire, the hand that looked for an alibi in
the snuffed cigarette. Oh, he said, between all these, the
longing, the smell of flesh, the guilty recalling, first and
last matter, not anymore, the silent dots of the endless.
The moist circle of the beer was still on the floor, and the
tin cap. We’d leave in a while. The secret ticket collector
observed from behind the large, dusty glass partition,
the traffic, the buses, motorcycles, carts and that woman
with the carton boxes, walking, limping, from the weight of
so many blind things, hers and ours, of us all, so foreign
things.
Libros Libertad 