For her they are all the same;
for her everything is the same, what begins and what ends, what starts and what
finishes; what goes in and what comes out; white of snow, her bright skin, goat’s milk,
sperm dripping from her indifference; because the skin is ephemeral, it glues only to
what it is, nevermore here in my chest hairs or even less here in my mouth, but in
everything, in all parts; she does not remember anything; nor photograph at any time;
goes off of the aura of the living things; she dims; and if begins, terminates, if
introduces, withdraws, as if the skin wrinkled beneath the belly of a frog, as if she had
never initiate to penetrate herself anywhere; she forgets bodies no more beautiful than
these ones.
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