***
I’ve sat at the table of the poor
I lack a sigh and a look I move
my arms like mortal wings
I get the feeling back in my memory
a humming rises up to the ceiling
and in the throat an itch in the hand
of the gentle unknown woman
a letter without response circulated
through the stagnation of the public
offices, the woman got the news
about the punished one, she was
soaking in the lie and in the terrifying
look. The destination am I, I’m just
searching for a place, a door, a shelter, a bell.
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