We pierced some pastel blues in the sky,
because you had no room to chase fairy tales.
It was the story that broke the years
between my words,
the fear of an injured flute
from that unusual god shielded in the bushes,
creasing cathedrals.
In the furrows your cloak, your nails
of silence for love returns,
in the gesture unwary occasions.
Where there were wisteria or just
signs of a possible disappearance
the footsteps of our scans appear,
the days of the garden appear
that repeats my gesture.
Dizziness remains suspended
in an hour’s notebook.
*
Scent of flesh in the spell of your wax,
carved to stun,
while the browned groin is engorged
clutching rings and purples.
The whiteness of the voice increases distances
among unexplored images
and my alienation,
ruddy trap of those lights of the day,
that surround me when you are between the walls.
Even in the silences I find the net
with the sign of escape, and whispering secrets
the impossible caress of the usual illusion.
One by one the crystals melt reflections
between the phalanges and the fingertips
in confusing days and lichens.