A trans poem
The morning is like a fragile bag in which he dumps leftover drugs.
The windows in the house will always show broken glass,
a woman is her house and the window panes will unfailingly always be
like how after resting gently in bed after a lunch with whisky
a woman is a lost animal; another animal, maybe a wolf, paid for the
drinks in the tavern,
and now everything’s bland, as if it all were reduced to that word – drug –
while through a hole
the city entered like the blow of a stone and mixed with blood, as if we were following a
or a wolf through the never ending web of public transportation.