The smoke of cigars
is less serious than your eyes,
where time suffers on the flesh.
My day stumbles
along with a daring angel.
My abundance is logical.
The smoke of cigars
On this spring night,
my path’s been overheard in silence.
It’s the first seed of light
germinating in remoteness.
When opened doors end,
injured birds die
Inventors of fury
talk to the edge of disappearance.
only a premonition
before the kingdom,
your presence a signal,
Our bodies falling apart like
paper boats on the sea.
They’ve interrupted my time,
Interrupted my touch of the moss on its immovable waters.
I’ve felt their eyes surround my words,
yet I still feel free to fly with the birds.
Private signs tied in hidden languages
spoken in an adverse chamber.
I’m lost in the dryness of my mouth
in the barbarian hands
of distant riverbanks,
where the second person
fulfills me with lost promises
for those who’ve died before reaching
the possibility of being.
Words move doors,
symbols of disaffection
into a night that goes on
to grant us with the dawn.
I was inspired when your lakes were suns,
and children were words in the air,
and days were an easy shadow of eternity.
It wasn’t our exact death I was looking for:
It was dust
more credible than memory,
pain more cruel to be divine.
White steam from drowned ships.
Love against the sea and summer,
an invincible smoke of the dead.
The last eyes.
The fire of light that blinds.
Sometimes I wake up
when the night’s in full bloom.
I feel the sensitive pulsation,
of how we loved the sea
and our summers alone.
Now light tells me
yesterday is other landscapes,
time and asteroids.
My soul feels beautiful in your shadow.
Born with the day,
a gradual loss in seconds,
my eyes look at this way of being.
The double smiles that I’ve known,
continue and ascend the light of fatigue.
They’re immense in this field,
yet they aren’t known
where their names are undressed,
diffused between lamps — mortal.
I wear a long mourning
of vessels and bodies,
my revelations never stop
without traces of regret.