Asleep on these tracks that don’t
Pierce my back…to the perfidious
Eyes and their light,
Earth without shade,
Clamor without sound,
And barricades at the front steps of houses.
I’ve often gotten lost
In the Kohl-like darkness of night
And given my mouth to
My chewing gum’s nectar
Until my speech becomes muted,
A honeycomb in silence’s cells,
Noise is the tongue’s fingernail.
The being has revealed its living light,
A sugarcane which the wind adorned with a tune
I,
The prose writer whose soul lies
In the creeping of the ink,
Am not strong enough
To push a blind riddle with
My back to the waving of flags.
Between the sugary behind
Is clamor without sound
Water dripping onto a wooden chair.
The cloud’s sweat is inspired,
The dew on the tin sheets,
Your longing is a bell
Swinging in a childless bed.

How can I play
When language has been eclipsed by imagination’s neediness?
How can I cross to the window
If my tongue is without a fingernail, a sound,
Promenading in the dusk?
A piece of chewing gum without its sugar
Chewed up on the sidewalk,
Flowers whose colors bleed upon graves.
Wake me, my love,
Ripen the morning coffee
Upon your palm’s prairie
Prepare
The shower’s thin stream of rain
And separate
Me from the mosquito blood on the walls.
Separate
The sun
From the essence of the intimate night,
And program your shoes
Into pathways that never empty.
Sprinkle the perfume under your earrings
And aim the remote control of your complexion
At every piece of bad news.
I’ll bark, alone,
At any passer-by who comes near our pillow,
And delouse your milk of every stray pair of dice.
In the mirror,
Your right breast
Is left of the garden,
And your toes
Rid of your shoes,
Are luminous upon my shoulders.
Obey every call to madness,
Awaken the timber in every soundless voice,
Give my lover back to me.
Here every place has sharpened thorns
Which keep the lover from his tender rendezvous.
Between us there is a meter of illusions
Which we protect from all certainty,
Between us there is an ashtray
In which we drop the ashes of masks.
Between us there is
Nothing
Which we delay for a while.
It’s time for the spirit’s escape,
For the flourish of meaningful silence,
Really, what is it that’s between us?
Leafy sprigs of mint in cups,
A distant song.
I long
For the spirit’s escape from its shoelaces,
The daybreak of voice
From the sadness of eyes.