We are some disjointed guitars.
When the wind blows through
discordant lines and sounds awaken
in the chainlike strings that dangle.
We are some incredible antennae
rising like fingers into chaos,
on their tips the infinite resounds
but soon to crash all broken down.
We are some diffused senses,
with no hope to assemble.
In our nerves the whole of nature tangled.
In our body, in our memory tormented.
Repulsed by things and poetry
is the envied refuge.
