i tap my knees, there is a land collapsing. listen.
this land is like a saturday night that has died.
like a river strolling across a bridge. knees are
not like cities you build in the mouths of exhaust
pipes. not the sort of happiness that rustles like a
plastic shopping bag, a place where people throw
the night away in chatter and search for a brief
embrace out of the usual loneliness. the usual
embrace. damn. like a broken dish, leaving a
black hole within. and i stand and my knees are
already gone. my knees have already left my
body. then i throw out this body without knees.
i throw it out near the window. i am alarmed.
just where am i now? outside the window or
within the window. who was thrown away? did i
throw my own body out of the window, or did
the window throw me out? how do i find my way
now apart from my body? later the cats are
partying on saturday night. they make a
country out of broken dishes. i see broken dishes
on saturday night. i see the broken pieces of
saturday night in a black hole gaining muscle. i
hear my knees suppress all of it. about a land
collapsing on your pillow. about the book of
matches in your body.

Translation: 2010, Nukila Amal