the silence of present isn't much more than a fright
a grumble of the world that cannot stop
even when the windows are closed
when clouds and morning stars
don't cover with heat the shoulders of the child
who sleeps in a corner of the room
but the dreams survive
like an island of garbage in the middle of Pacific Ocean
where a turtle once made love with a bag of plastic
where a broom thought of herself as a medusa
and fell in love with a barracuda
the kind of stuff that happens when the ocean comes
I keep waiting love to turn into a shell where I could lay down
but I can tell by observation that gravity will also hold our bones when the time comes.

In my eyes there are all the sweet things poets
have ever said about death,
but loneliness begs for fire and a peanut in the evening
and poetry is brought as if, as if I had just kidnap a hummingbird
to drink water from my dying cells:
jellyfish as coagulated blood;
my voice sounds like a voice even though there's a heart
in my mouth and since love always brings Easter eggs
for Christmas it's been hard to discern
scabs from flowers.

I tried to tell you how beautiful the sun looks when it burns an ant
and I also told you how my emptiness is a sheet music of an appeased white
but now I know that it doesn't really matter how beautifully I sing
if you don't know how well I can hear the howl when I see a framed kite
I  feel the thrill of a snail celebrating a ***** river
and I am the one who cry a hallelujah
when I imagine someone breaking its conch
you know that an angel appears once a while
it usually happens when an astronaut can sight seagulls
when he's finally able to raise coconuts on the moon
and sweeten the coffe with dust
well everybody knows that there is no air and there is no sound
where there is no land
but since you show up the universe is nothing more than a whale song.

sometimes I miss you so much that everywhere
I look is you behind the sunflowers' silhouettes
that bloom in a garage. your eyes are silent as if
you are wearing a helmet and it ends that
everything that comes out my mouth is
dust 'cause I constantly become
the distant father of the world. your beauty is
gasoline spilled on the curb: I don't think
I can bear so much love in my industrial blocks.
but it's raining today. I am wet poetry
and it's also you in the opening of sky.