Though the corpse is put away for later haunting,
As if they could last forever, what never started
And never seemed to end, unlike the hot forged thoughts
That pass with aperitifs between us, from somewhere
Not so threatening as what will stay, ideas
That will come to define us, instead of racing
Away, like an octupus who loves every form
Until there's one that it cannot escape, too tight
The prison of the closest thing, you want to touch.
