When the tree loves close to your eyes, your mouth open like a desert, without force of mouth, like a detached, crushed torrent, exasperates. It contains, cut on its mirror, a proud image of this surface where the straight points are reflections. About the wall what you tell me nothing. From so many hours withheld. When I'm asleep I sob as I name the rooms. And you turn on all the lights like fluorescent windows.