ROUTINE

There's no heaven for love, love, just today,
and this sad strand falling out
when you comb your hair in front of a mirror;
crossing those long tunnels
panting and gasping;
eyeless walls,
a hole that echoes
some hidden garbled voice.

There's no truce for love, love. Night
does not suddenly become breathable.
When a star breaks its chains
it zigzags madly and disappears,
but the law never loosens its talons.
You meet in the dark. A kiss mingles
the taste of tears.
...