When I was the age of a landscape
I used to write letters
And that changed all the noise of solitude

A breeze coming from the sea was still a piece of childhood

Later,
there were so many winters followed by so many silences
I had thousands of days with fever and heat

an impenetrable black light — full of varicose veins —
fell upon my solid shoulders like a raw and symbolic pain,
a call to the sacred, to the memory of a more carnal time, full of guilt,
more imperfect, where breathing was an authentic act,
a formula of instinct, of abandonment or return, perhaps.

I dreamed — a change of scene — I took off my best suit, folded it over my knees,
and entered the forest like an animal inventing itself.

My mouth is the shell of a fish —
a slow flower of a bird.
Gray flower.
Ashen flower, like a breast sprung from the word of a fish.

Vine crystallized in the spasm of a vague and splendid wing,
a blow of mouth in the reflowering of the flower
in the fields strained white —
a blow born of nothing,
into the drowsiness of the shell.

Words watering in the mouth
toward the ether of the bird —
the quiver of the flower in the fish.

Kafka,
Prague is poorly lit.
A guest at a cheap boarding house smokes on the balcony of his room – he contemplates the movement of the Vltava – the river’s dark reverie chills the soul.
A newspaper lies across his lap, the front page reads: How to Be a Good Cockroach.
The man goes back inside; that night, he dreamed.

A tree
lifts its burned crown—
screams
from within
its *****.

Light
drools dead
the underground fruit
and the sound
of a new god.

And when we lifted our arms, night had already fallen
– our heavy heads spoke with the blazing stars.

And the water flowed,
folded on the wing,
like one who turns a page of the wind
– and our speech, what was it then?

Strange passion, this one,
of touching the equation of shoulders
and dreaming like a stone-wise man
– I already feel the spherical shapes of time
as if it were too late for us to sing.