almost every woman has yearned for more
everyone collects a memory within her ribs
never shared with their daughters
when they comb their empty look with the passion
of disavowing life

I think that’s the way the world is made

every day we wash with the fear pouring through the tap of cold water
we entice our legs for one step more
going up or down cold treads
the everyday mosaic of the rancid ice of non-being
later on
we get on the first tram almost hypnotically
hoping we will not bump into another great love
that would turn us down from the rails of time