sometimes I know
my poem begins today and ends tomorrow
but most of the time
I don’t even know where or whether it begins
moreover where or whether it ends
and this is not all
a variable number of lines from a poem
passes into another
and so on faster and further
faster further as in a whirl
or as in a brownian motion of words

my poem is not counted in stanzas
no but it has an empty space or two
or three or many others or not even one
in other words nothing
there you’ll read me at my best
there my lines are
the closest to the state of being

if I connect the margins of my poem
with an imaginary line
as in a dot-to-dot puzzle
a shape will be born
sharp at the edges towards the end
as the stone tools once chipped
by the prehistoric men