Doors

Water is not a stagnant thing on an afternoon
when everything is dying
People here keep finding last doors into pleasure
in strange rituals
They become butterflies. No metamorphosis.
Just bodies distorting
their voices,

streams
seeking lost boundaries,

In the morning
we will settle for climatic secrets
but today is for the smell of onions
turning
on my hands
and the sound of feet we wait for that do not arrive.