Nata

Passes like a bullet,
like the wind of a very touched thought.
I make an effort in the mornings
when a rooster sings to me,
when I already have one foot buried
and the other still in bed.

I grab my head with my hands
so it doesn't go two thousand six.
In my canary's cage,
I study the dictionary
and put on my socks.

Speaks like a face cream,
like the slowest very creamy nourishment,
and I've included a peppermint,
when a Nordic bag shuts me up,
when I already have a price alert
and the other still looks at a floor.

I grab my nose with keys,
so it doesn't enchant me, two more six.
In my diary's alphabet,
the calendar is copied,
your dress already follows me.