At the Bookshop

The air, heavy human breath,

is on the in pages thick of sweat,

one hundred one thousand goodness knows how many

novels turn around,

ten thousand lives,

innumerable essays,

irresponsible, comic,

dramas, poems

they push from every direction

for a single square centimetre,

splattering flashes,

they smile anonymously disquieting

from infinite collections of photographs,

raise their voices in discordant scales

overlap choruses in crescendo,

up to deafen.

In case someone listens

In the uproar,

of the alcoholic vertigo,

from the loneliness

of bewilderment.

January 8, 2005