the individual looks at himself in the whites of his eyes
He’s neither warm nor cold
he’s waiting
For what
for the road to open door handles before his eyes
for the sea to rush up all the way to his nose
to show everyone his bones blanched with lime
and to say
I’m the rat foreboding the teeth’s rage
and I eke out short circuits
with a bit of sauce
Don’t be vexed with me because of the sauce
it’s not my fault there are rich and poor
and cops and toughs
I’m the hat between the head and the cudgel
the pig’s child that says
it’s going to work out