This Medusa dozen forks
that were forgotten in my room
tickle like a live fish in the palm of the hand,
to the marks of your feet on the wall facing the bed
mine
me and anyone
of all the shadows that lived,
the first candle that lit
lust and those petals sweeps
corner of the mouth of the vase,
that my mother gave me when they I loved you,
love that he saw me and then did not see you go away ...
I trample the streets again
what was your bloody belly god
while swans baptized with holy water
and almond oil varnish
you that when I touch you nominate your pores
not write sonnets me the keys to your house
while hanging from the door,
and savannas spilled on the floor and do not hang
of nowhere,
the same place where the moon hangs,
the full moon,
filled with pus someone,
anyone with an Italian surname,
as a mark of egg noodles,
second cousin as a gangster,
lovers descended from Caravaggio ...
And that someone who not imagine
unravel your hair in a few months,
and calm when you hear your voice whisper
the same words that I have heard.
As a disarming Rubick Cube
I lie to sink in dreams I do not dwell,
into crumbs left by the crows in your neck,
on carcasses of zebras that hides the forest your hair,
and in your pubic hair leaving frenare
traces left by cars in the rough.
I would take the bones of other poets,
cry behind bars filed down my veins
and then
when nobody comes to visit, I
shooting into the air clearing,
pointing to the sun with rubber bullets,
and I will fall on the floor and fell
your name in my voice forever.
and ring the bell of any house
to tell who comes out I'm not the same,
when I close my locks eyes forbid me see yours,
but will lie
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