We’ll call this consumerism era
love making us a dose of powder
let’s plough the devil’s property
until the day of the golden ring
and the cloying gala
with an anthem to the Blessed Virgin
At the market of love
—buttocks paralyzed with rubber
to be desirable
—whisky, gold, and assets
so that you drift in my direction
and you’re not short of goods in your old age
You’ll open your eyes touching your husband’s back,
he’ll squint touching your backbone.
You’ll both load fingers and hands smelling of drool,
saliva, and lies.
Fruit of the devil’s property
this is how you’ll sleep.
Devalued currency dulling the trip,
devaluated gestures ending without meaning.
Two separate lines on a glass made of dreams,
you think, stir and join, disengage
images of your days of silence.
This is how they wake up,
attracted by the roll of bills that time despises
and uses to consume them.