one doesn’t write poems in here nor love letters

we very seldom think of men

and when we do we send them

without any shame somewhere where it’s warm and well

a woman passes by me

the shaven skin of her armpit

is like the back of a pig.

I button up my shirt

I’ve hastily gathered my things

and stuffed them in two plastic bags

now I’m waiting to leave.

my traces are a few imaginary stains

of blood and pus left on the imaginary bed-linen

and this brown beetle

that I pass from one palm to the other

it can’t be more than a beetle

pulled out of the dream ... then why do I feel it

as if it’s walking under my skin?