I

Robbing towards its crack. Unearthing, humid, interior. It invents the air, it cancels the air in its ground.

It has drunk. And the hand plunges.

There is a shadow that brings its deaf edge to hunger.

Stolen cancer, in its whip.
Time against its bull.
For a severe harvest.

In the rain that burns itself of the city You

inside its pulse.

Escape, your angle clay enough.

For the beat, the one that absorbs this obedience.

 II

Between ground and abyss, the branches. From the dialogue, the branches. The branches of a dialogue
lie dormant.

Time, in its river. Time broken in its river. Between ground and abyss, scarecrow.
Of a fallen biography. In an impossible position.
Inertia unfolds the margins of a life. The well of inertia. The ice of inertia’s well
that negates movement.
 III

Broken hands.

A sunset
in which the heart that grows
against its pasture
has abandoned
through the hollow of a mother
life.

In what sobbing does this stubborn wind turn

off the wings with
which time served its mantle
of fleeting hours?

We are a repeated knock of love in the air.

A lost wait, our horizon.

 IV

Come.

Such an easy equilibrium to give. Always

–this air–

there is something
to do. Come.

My light is poured forth. You don’t have to stay.

Just hold.

This silence.

As if I were about to fall.

 V

It is useless to look inside: the spectacle of a discouraged

parody of time
drags along.

Here we are
in a monotonous commentary
an hexagonal web of life’s fly.

The sleepy head of astonishment

gestures
through the spiral
as you discuss
the
bird
of muted barking.

Audience of being outside, bereft of even hopelessness

 VI

The tentacle that surrenders

a caress
to the sea
of decision
procreates
bread
or fish
or children.

Wide open, the tabernacle

of rich indifference. Lightness
feeds all the steps.

Here, it is the same

to stand in profile or in front or fallen or climbing up a vine.

We are in a stew of delays

licking our life.

So good to breath this humidity of being

a man among kids a woman among kids a kid
among kisses a kiss inside the water.
 VII

As to an altar, we return; sleepwalking.

The heaviness of our acts the effort of our laziness is taken away.

In the surrender before this deaf embrace

participating

the body complies with what is closed.

A grey–tinged aroma of bread on the walls.

A sky that does not raise

its chains opens
the vacant window
of the idea.

A nightmare we even fear to escape.

 VIII

Relic

A statue of forced pose that cancels out the seasons’ sex.

You merge the background
to yourself
and to the form
in which history collapses
under your disdain of yesterday
today and tomorrow.

Such meager light is already too much.

You remain
not for the museum
but to run breath aground in the guilty sac of nothingness
that sometimes wakes up
to suffocate color.

With plastic soil.

 IX

It will always be my jump.

You breathed me
and without weight
the backbone
of the present.
I listen
to the wine
that vibrates.
Open doors.
No caution in the root.
There is a current
of lips
unbound.
Calm and escape
they trip me:
source
of the one
who does not wait.
The dance
spans.
The voice enters
to give.
The body
shares
its trees.
 X

Even if everything would break.

The wall makes you naked.

Bite: your smile falls.

Kick: your tears do not branch.

You trigger a mirror inside.

Your time
time
of yours inside
of you?

Even if everything gets destroyed.

I dry the last

hope
I humidify.

Touch the bones of your day

Are you sure?