The Bullet
The bullet that wounds me
will be a bullet with a soul.
The soul of that bullet
will be like
the song of a rose
if flowers could sing
or the scent of a topaz
if stones could smell,
or the skin of a music
if it were possible for us
to touch the songs
naked with our hands.
If it wounds my brain
it will tell me: I was seeking
to probe your thoughts.
And if it wounds my chest
it will tell me: I wanted
to tell you that I love you.
That I love you.