#8

you mix our breath; like a wave that smashes on its self,
you find the pain of things, the minds of hollow nights
- and the black it's in, always;
it doesn't rain within your master shells, your opened wide
mouths, the walls that deform the height
and become rigid and twisted.

I don't know where I am:
a less dot on your lips,
that're crossed, slowly behind the evening.