Someone overnight sticks a gigantic
piece of carbon paper on my door.
Everything I am thinking immediately
comes through on the other side of the wall.
Inquisitive people from all over the place
come in throngs, I hear the soles of their shoes
lift up the stairs to my apartment
and, leaving,
put them down again.
They are birds of every species,
moon farm dogs,
transitions, forest aisles and
old acacias that
suffer from insomnia.
They put on spectacles and
read me, are moved or
threaten me with their fists, it
depends, for I have a
clear idea of it all.
Only about my soul
I know nothing.
About my soul that perpetually
slides away from me between days,
like a cake of soap in the bath.
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