To know the correct line of despair.
It has no face, does not stand up when called upon.
It is a perfect stance while my own face is full
of Earth’s dirt and grime so i stand at a table unserved
upon a terrace, in the evening and at midnight, by the
ocean of despair.
While our soul’s motors run i curse the gasoline
within my own heart — the road too long, the mileage
is a silver chain around our hearts. It is not so much
the quantity of small facts like seeds which leave a furrow
for another night’s fall. Not the last kiss or touch by
a warm body — it’s a deep hole riddled with snow.
If not for gravity dead birds could never fall
and my blood isn’t even thick. i know the correct line
of despair.
No, not the foam of a dying blue crab
nor the drinking glass // or the hair caught within the
earrings within your jewelry: but the chase we run against
between living and dying upon the road to unknown routes
like a loose noose \ like the fan of despair around midnight.
Such breathless despair, whose mirrors never tell us if we’re
dead. This despair cured by the nature of our world:
to discover the beautiful uprooted tree of your Night.
:: 02.07.2021 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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