Aquatic Centre

Lying in bed, sometimes she sees shapes,

curves that enter and spirals that escape.

Transparent organs at the top open

and turn into a smooth line that chases itself,

clears the breath of dark colors – the color of blood,

or the dense color of the flesh where bees are born.

Nothing regenerates, but it is prolonged, infinite

in the line that cleans objects and makes things

to think, to live: a big egg, for example,

it breaks without losing the liquid and very white invades

the angles of the ceiling, opens an arch, a door

between continents.

Between sky and water this building

shines in boundless light:

can open it, open you

to a tongue of harsh tones,

return to the round sound of another

resuming those tones like windows on the sea

or the suspension bridge to the park

where the people lying on the grass are bees

and the heat in the sun seems to prevent death

even if in years, millions, someday

blowing up.

It then follows other lines, those of the species,

maybe how to know that to be born

it will no longer be violence, but a phenomenon of the look,

and from the bed let the sex escalate

around the contours of this building

in its white under storm rays,

the star in the instant before

to explode.

Life is everywhere, in a curved line

someone lives like thinking.

The bees finally leave my mouth because I think of them.