January 2

I shot a gazelle once. Here, a gazelle is a poetic necessity, nothing more.

The truth is made of white and black sheep.

Anyway, I set a trap for the gazelle and it fell into it. I had an indescribable longing

to savor some salty gazelle meat.

I don’t like the lamb they sell in stores. But I do like your brown hand as it pins medals on my shoulder. I like your lips when they say: you’re the pollen of the palm tree.

Me, a palm tree? I’m the steel that wounds it, and the terrifying moon that sacrifices it. I can’t bear my exile any longer. I no longer distinguish between store-bought gazelles and the lamb of the poem.

Casting out the gazelle is futile, the pollen of the palm tree is futile.

If I die, log into my inbox. The password is written on a scrap of paper on the table.

There, you’ll find my will, and you’ll grab the gazelle by its horns.