There are broken words,
Like the foam of the seas.
The spit of the beginnings which splashes the cheek.
You call them memories.
The volume of my inner corpse is growing every day.
The claw hallows so as to find the pus, the rotten poison.
I am a latent dead inhabited by the book’s poltergeists.
The air embraces the air.
The beautiful cold is dancing into all the ceramic joints of the eye.
God, I can see the fleeting black ribbon,
The skirt raised from the corner, detached from the nun’s cold body