In insomnia’s reading room,
when the rubbish truck is
the only answer to silence
and each instant is a lover
we kill in an opening and closing of legs,
I follow as an echo, down to the station,
the hurried step of the cleaning ladies.
For them, there’s no hell. They just
For us, the 837 bus destination will always be Calvary,
even if I pay for my ticket.
In the slow but sure horizon of an utopia-light,
I spend my days selling my third world
in international conferences and talks.
I show everybody my golden canine tooth,
my giraffe skin,
the bibliography in French.
I write the word empty
after the word waiting.
I lay my hands on my tired knees.
but badly dressed,
– look –
I’m the new model for failure.