Found in Willow Springs 13
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Transformations
My work is bartered between who windows
to the street, in ten meters of worldly ground,
every night in a dish of moon
and one yawn of empty pitchers.
All days for me are Mondays:
always beginning, pacing in circles
around myself, in the ten meters
of my rented tomb with its windows.
I forsake the world for a chair
eternal where I close
my work of bee and ghost
that changes sighs into money.
To buy the sun every Sunday
and keep my country in a closet,
find love in the stairs,
hold up an umbrella to the lightning.
My word is bartered in a street,
seller of snouts hung in rows,
between houses which remember well
the color of clothes and the clouds.
Inspectors of windows,
lost by myself on the street of signs:
everyday is a journey, going and returning
to anywhere, to the night.
The Infinite Trip
All begins travel
in distinct ways to their God:
the root walks down the stairs of water.
The leaves with sighs harness the cloud.
The birds use their wings
to reach the zone of eternal lights.
The slow mineral with invisible steps
crosses the stages of an infinite circle
that in dust begins and ends in the star,
and to the dust once more returns
remembering the passing, even dreaming
its successive lives and deaths.
The fish speaks to his God in the bubble
that is a trill in the water,
the shout of an angel, fallen, deprived of his feathers.
Only man keeps the word
to search for the light
or to travel to that country that lacks echoes of nothingness.
Odd Days
There are days that dawn very early
with your ox eyes and your forehead cloudy,
without remembering your name,
only mistakes of the week.
Days we can't find the streets and the dates,
they refuse us the light's pure guidance,
we forget the roses and the numbers,
the windows show us only gloomy images.
Lost is the key of treasure,
the watchword of love converted into a ring,
we struggle with letters and memories,
confusing the gloom and our garments.
Days of sand that make the clocks succumb,
days when we descend the steps of ash,
when all the walls of the house deny us
and we search in vain for the next.
Three Strophes of Dust
Your ashy touch wears away all forms,
brother to the night and the tide.
You wrap all objects in one anonymous death
like a return to their original earth.
Climb unseen on walls and galleries.
Clothes pale
on their shaded hangers, and clocks
cease suddenly to live at your passing.
Secret emissary of ruins,
you model on matter your terrestrial mask.
Nothing can escape dark conquest,
innumerable ally of death.
