The skyline, a remainder of the last witness,
an open arch between forest
under which a river and a road pass,
you don’t know where they come from
nor where they go.

The woman, tamed for a while,
until she gets back her hunter reflexes,
used to have badly directed gestures
as in an absurd theater.
She was managing my feelings with fear
to find the balance where I sit,
to have my opinions rounded
and the sharpening angles from my eyes.

She has never found a safe place,
just some kind of an isolated nest
somewhere
at the edge of the world
where days flow from inertia,
each one the same,
until you find out that you do nothing
more than
you normally live.