In a hotel room in the Barrio
you are once again in play
instead of
over her shoulder
you are suddenly in my mouth
as if you want to show her the secrets
that lie at the back of my throat
every small word I now want to utter
is being cut off by your thrusts
you should have let it go, you say
what good did it bring us?
this afternoon behind the curtains of
Buenos Aires
I'm his lover and her illusionist
from my open mouth I fabricate
a monotonous string of mourning-cards
one guess who's name
is on them?
