Unrolled like a beggars carpet,
You tilt towards me.
I tilt in a direction:
Away, towards a cold furnace and damp space,
a warm hand on a wheel.
or Towards your own center, a hesitation
at the mask of disbelief. It was called smoke.
The red lights.
The red wall.
The red of everything, it made me think that you’re an angel.
A destitute soldier of promise,
or a slung-out symbol of caprice,
a haunting slab of butter.
You are a beluga of insecurity.
You are the long story that lost direction
You are an ambivalent attendant,
you cannot unclench your jaw.
The blinds are drawn
and there is small room in the wood panes,
for the light to break through.