Her and I
are unfinished


outside her window,
it rains lightly


her room is grey
and her hair is like

an earth sensed
through thunder

from inside
an apartment.

I am struck
brown skinned

as I am
by her enemy gait

her hunger
like mine

she, a European
post-backpacker

and Birkenstock
wayfarer of the edges

she likes Italian opera
and I think for a European

that’s kinky
like an Australian

liking a souvenir shop
or a latino

liking Carmen Miranda
without an ironic distance.

Our quakes
are one

undivided like
a shore without stitches

and scars
without addressing it

my unequal day of hands
stills – not even a mention

between eating together
and the duration

of her closed eyes
my closed eyes

a bliss like a slap
of new year’s cheer

and heights
it’s not only like

that I don’t matter
but it is true

that I don’t matter
but if she leaves

the level remains
she wanders

I am not jealous
and am happy

for her infidelities
like fame, its indifference


we pitched a tent
in front of the tv


we know everydays
and she continues


as her flight of the bumble
beehive hairdo


I wonder where she goes
like an astronomer overworked


and her joyous legs
take pace


in waiting sands
our hours are big


parks and cinemas
and we never


take gladdened photos
as this temporary


city festival
might last years