It seems that
the supposed
cloth spider in the corner
watching you through the corner of the eye
it’s not there.
I’m waiting with the trying temptation
to break its thin fiber
that’s covering the gap.
The summer fruit catches color,
your body flavour rises
in the noon of silence
and enslaves the smell.
My hands got my fingers on fire,
they pierce the darkness
by withdrawing the night
closing the deep in wells.
Mornings with mirrors faces
dress the absent margins,
they wasted come and go
where grasses grow
and no one can hear them.