Às moscas

It's not the energy reeling, Nor the lines in your face, Nor the clouds on the ceiling, Nor the clouds in space. It's not the phone on the table, Nor the bed in the earth, Nor the bed in the stable, Nor your stable words. It's not the formless being, Nor the cry in the air, Nor the boy I'm seeing, With her long black hair. It's not the open weaving, Nor the furnace glow, Nor the blood of you bleeding, As you try to let go. It's not the room, Not beginning, Not the crowd, Not winning, Not the planet, Not spinning, Not a rouse, Not heat, Not the fire lapping up the creek, Not food, Not to eat. Not the meat of your thigh, Nor your spine tattoo, Nor your shimmery eye, Nor the wet of the dew. It's not the warm illusion, Nor the crack in the plate, Nor the breath of confusion, Nor the starkness of slate. It's not the room, Not beginning, Not the crowd, Not winning, Not the planet, Not spinning, Not a rouse, Not heat, Not the fire lapping up the creek, Not food...