Now I’ll prepare myself
a new poem as fiery as a Ferrari,
with the same specific weight,
social and ideological, I admire it
and let others admire it,
with the hope of
having an accident
of procreating dead people.
Now I get into it,
check the braking system
how nice to crash
with such a ruby . . .
I know that as I emerge
from the drive-away the girls
turn round
pretend to know
so the lyrical music
roars, communicative
and spatial, the asphalt is
warm like
milk, the event
will not be banal.