A Phone Call I Haven't Yet Made

When I realize that the light is brief;
When I realize that water burns and trembles;
When I realize, suddenly, that the salt of the earth is the same that I collect in my hands;

When the opening door won't let me in;
When the herbs of your voice don't come out the way they used to;
When the wine I heat weighs down like the armor of a glance;

When I'm heading out and I trip constantly, unendingly;
When the table breaks like an invisible bubble;
When black pepper and balsamic vinegar aren't enough;
When the fish tells me what the sun already told;

When I consider that I'm afraid, that I rip out the roots,
Fog the window with mouths and mouths;
When I consider that I'm afraid of
When time inundates itself in time.