there is something sounding in your look
blowing off my sleep like a dizzy butterfly
at midnight

I hold a cigarette like it was a lunette
I want to discover the unique sense through its lens
the train’s got off the rails in the station
the air rarefied by the travelers’ fright
and the mechanic’s detachment
flowing over the rails

do you think that
thoughts (in)filtrate better
on the reverse?

there is a reaping of senses
to see everything at high speed
through the greasy haze
of each morning

beyond there is the real life
there we don’t know what will be
but it’s sure, oh, so sure
we shall adapt to it
under way