The page turns
Notes taken too quickly at the end of the landing
stages
Where every time, despite the attractive force
Our line breaks rejected us back
The words barely understood
The hard time reading each other
It turns
Leaving on our tables
Materials all stirred in a pungent ink
On that, I've written too much
A known rustling
And only the sharp paper cutter
Under the cover which enveloped us
We tried tests
The impasse is written small
And the definition that only one index should have
hidden
Nothing but empty space
The space of summary
All the space
A story without comment
The page turns taking away the heads
On what will never appear.
March 2011