there certainly is in this world
resembling a drawer full up with dirty laundry
a spot for which i’m longing
like a sexual slave for erotochine
a place that viscerally guides me
as if i’m a radio-controlled puppet

over the night
we are telepathically communicating
electrical impulses sends in my tympanum
i dream of unknown trees
concentric labyrinths
whirlwinds of rays
shadows of butterflies

like a yoyo made of rags
to the hand that flings it
and uses instead of elastic
an umbilical cord
like time to space
like the mouth of the lizard
to its tail
attracted we are
me by the sky within itself
the other by my transparent scentless blood