on top of the words
between the sheets
behind the sky
without time
with patience
to true science
to love
from what you want
to shine
according to plan
we will all be.

Determined to scatter himself in imperfect sweetness
undress those present to clothe those absent
translate the Universe or lie
rummage kneeling through dark places
before a cackle or a cry
turn on the light with shadowy voice
pray, plant, pull down
from amen to adacadabra
he came today and forever
to be a poet.

convinced of the invisible
Thinking of a mountain
with an eagle's instincts
the premonition of a demented person
waiting with certainty
the most primitive revolution is tacked together:
the most diminutive spark of an atom:
Thought.

Rain!
The clouds fall apart.
Another shift under the sun
to pick up the pieces.

saying:
“the Name of God is a word that conjugates all the verbs at all times...write it!”
Man, in his vain intent discovered poetry.

a microbe,
a stab,
in many years,
in a few minutes,
sometimes
always

I dreamt of bonfires, the sound of a river
a crone caressing my hair;
I feared dying upon waking,
but neither flames, nor blood nor time are omens of death.
And so I can write this.

I never believed that I needed my feet on the ground
to grow wings.

because no one knew its name
a flower was given to me as a challenge,
so ugly like it belonged in a Barbie doll's hair
or a as a gift for a priest, it deserved to be smashed against a warship
or stuck in a coca-cola bottle;
it had petals that didn't coat the soul
it smelled of an office and didn't have a name;
when evening arrived everyone wanted to leave without knowing it,
I stopped to look at it and recalled the rebelliousness of Pizarnik
but I became bored before pulverizing my eyes
and for that reason I simply called it :
Cataplum
and without wanting to I ended the world.