THE PATRIARCHAL BED WITH FOUR POSTS

A spider builds with nothing…spit, the dust, some geometry. Ants, on the other hand, turn survivors around the room, sprouting where you least expect it, between the bristles of a toothbrush, in a wad of cotton wool, in books.
He saw them on the edge of a cup of tea.

His mind opened its vein in a dream. Lying on the bed he fixed an encrustation on the wall, a stain a crack. The crack in the attic, near the portrait of Schopenhauer widened, while the light oscillated and shook the wall.

By force, which we do not foresee, we help fate but we help it in vain. Mythos means story, but the myths are silent. A light bulb transforms the human being from a creature that would spend about a third of every day groping in the dark the incredible fragile nature of a curved, white milk globe, protected around an even more fragile filament…a counterfactual perception on the dependence of human sight…on the rhythm of the earth's rotation.

This poem was published on Vanguard Anthology#3