Writing

Full stop, the end. New line and the beginning: another line other words words following one another — comprehensible? incomprehensible? — but endless. Endless, because they are endless the words between our bodies, and the passage of all our speaking cells across the gaps of stanzas and lines is endless... like the play of light in the crystal gem on a hairpin, with every movement of the head with every moment of light with the caresses of the rainbow's arcs color by color on the colorless body of space. The particles of my being gather together in the radius of the lights of your gaze, like words that after the cold full stop pour onto the new line, — comprehensible? incomprehensible? a clear stream? a muddy river? — but but, dead without beating in your bed...