XXIV.

Tahoma is the source.

It's the morning that's never the past.

The reverse return.

The technosol of my modern routine.

The circus of the egg without springs.

The kiss to the tin.

The Golden Plum Rush.

It is the letter writing itself and the red stem of poetry.

CHAOS.

It's the time of the weary text,

it's the one I read and transcribe.

The unspoken word and the next.

Tahoma is the source.

Esperanto.

The cube with misshapen faces, the star in the non-existence of the sky.

It's the colic of my shadow, my chiffon feathers.

Tahoma is the germ of time, the plague of silence.

THE BACILLO.

It's the reckless jargon, it's the sap.

He is the one who lifts the brick and the one who grinds it,

In the house where the toads crash against the windows.

That's what I don't say

THE DRIVE-IN THEATER.

It's the wayward world and the wind-up clock.

It's nothing.

Tahoma is the placenta within the placenta itself,

It's the zoom...

It's the pedal boat,

It's my idiots.

My conical lights, my indecent Neptune.

The bare coppers, my lies.

Is that it.

The other and the horns.

Tahoma is something like the middle

of fire and wound.

Marina Amestoy

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