[Pinakothek der Moderne, Munich]
Morning fog,
the always feared feature
A wasted ideia,
a fleeting sun ray
a foreign cry,
stuck in the throat
The day, persistent and naive
invites back:
8, 9, 10 o’clock.
The watch tic tacs
to the minutes melting
on the pavement outside.
– The world –
in my gasping chest
on the spots of my hand
In the ancestral fatigue
arizona-me 