21st of November
Another Sunday. Headache.
Too many cigarettes. Smoke. The windows
don’t open.
I don’t have but a week of rain and shells of cracked
almonds.
The faint light through the window; six pieces of ice.
The wick of the lamp, I don’t know, looks like inverted
silence. I count the squares of the blanket. All day long
I think that a basket of bread is nothing but a basket
of bread. I contemplate on this though I can’t believe it
because, why the buttons of our shirts get loose and
when the nights walk out in the roads, how do we find
the nails of the stars in the holes of the washrooms
every morning?

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