On the Edge of the Letter

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Desiring the feminine for life:

abyss between the words and the gash

of another creation – not knowing

how to make meaning.

The experience of this window is an echo on the border

of logic, horizon which defines and resists

the impulse, the pulse of the asphalt

which aspires to one single desire.

When I recall my symbolic breaks,

I am on the margin of the letter, deserting

all those who believe having found the complete

way: love is the only fall you come back

from, I say.

Thus my longing, mouth thirsty for water,

eating the names I lack and yet, even so

teach me: go live your life.