October went by; no, I didn’t go mad
the fog at the window rolls like a baby
but there’s still no sign of the one thing I’ve waited for
all my life. if I were the quiet
although wrapped in a coat, then that bread
would still come and eat me
who sent this bread?
that boy is me, bike propped
upside down on the ground
when, with his hands, he desperately makes
the pedals go round
I devour that fluid flying free-wheel muscle
who was it who sent the disasters? dialectics?
over the butchered and eviscerated
the dead rise, eyes filled with cotton
I could eat myself if I were the silence