A poem is not much. Almost always, it is nothing more than the scrap metal that the magnet is looking for. From the crumbs, from what remains, from the spoils, from this scum, to try to get the magnetic needle out of a compass. Above all, leave the remains there. And with the loopholes, with the pieces, try to define this dispossession. Give shape to the inclemency. What remains. What you are trying to say, I fall, I do not fall, into the throbbing and sinuous edge of what flees you. And not sheltered, but in the open.