I can’t reread my old poems
the being that wrote them distanced herself from me,
with my very own hand I chased her away.
I couldn’t stand to see her wallowing
in this reality without churches
without God
I replaced myself with another,
but at vespers time
I look for a green expanse concealed inside my mind
or some tree bark
and I make the pagan sign of the cross.
At times reality catches me in the middle of the act
and stuffs down my throat its five-cornered red stars.
I barely manage to get home,
I vomit them one by one
I flush them down with all I got.

And everything, everything (an old saying around here has
it)
purges out into the big black sea.