1798 c/o Guilherme Teixeira

On my hands, now,
space creates
A void,
which fondly I've named

In it resides
Three little man
with heights ranging between
one sixty-five to one eighty-
three, which, in violence,
I've dubbed as:
One Day, Nothing
and Fact.

Sleep deprives me from the
warmth of your presence,
and, absorbed in dark,
I glance the uterine dance
between Maria,
and Nothing and Fact.

One day doesn't move.