Coda of the Fixed Itinerant
Always the evening noises, the footsteps on the stairs, the day that rises in the throat.
A turn of the key will expel the world.
Against the extinct forest of furniture, the channeled bloodstream translates the dream into this small life.
In the end we shrink until finally we can no longer inhabit the gestures of our childhood.
A nail in a board: the remains of a fence; blurred memory of the mountain that raised the tree, that brooded over its ore.