Solitude is the fragrance
of the lover’s pillow
after he has left you
in the arms of a nervous morning
where you woke up
twenty years later

if we have failed
each other
it is done
the top soil
long since eroded
the developments
the house become
a dungeon
for the material life

it is a waste,
you and I
and reformed
according to the concrete
of man’s idea
the way it is
a story to which we never
have belonged
dream traces
listening to women yelling
the imperfect synchrony,
the unsolved symptoms

is it immortal distance
that keeps me
you from me
the gravity under which life
persists into the morning
through the orange methane sunset,
the mortar that adhesives the sky
to the earth in the twilight
of a beginning,
the clutch
before you sleep
evolutionary love,
the picture of a future
where we could be
instead of scattered pieces
looking for some more compelling
question than
why it is
we are left with this.