tomato

It is with great difficulty that I write now, nothing comes out of me, I have perished, I have dried out – the sun does things that only later does one regret. this house is burning down and amidst all of this, I have chosen to lay dormant, to rest my head against the kitchen floor and murmur to myself, as if all of this will go away, as if my teeth leave wells in tomatoes that have yet to turn red, tomatoes whose skin peels out of this crippled vine that I call a throat, into the hands of this tired farmer that I call a voice. Let me murmur to him, “Sandro, today do not water the plants – the sun is high and does things that one later regrets”. today, Sandro will water nothing, as if he even has water to give, as if there is anything to water (as if he could hear me in the first place). I am not worthy of Sandro.