face face   
 to the touch of our hearts   
 within reach of the ash tree    
 without gesture or word     
 high gaze      
 standby sums   
 On the photos   
 serious and sad   
 to jump from the top of the tree     
 fire hummingbird   
 passacaglia of the mists     
 showing veinlets with one hand      
 to decipher in the evening by candlelight   
 yellowed identity papers   
 that the wind scatters   
 before our sleepless eyes.   

 O face   
 unique face of passing time   
 dazzled infanta     
 be the receptacle of our tears   
 the salt of our meeting   
 from stick to thistle   
 from Job to gray     
 to growl   
 in front of the dung   
 mingling with basalt pebbles   
 glowing mixture   
 Virginia creeper   
 and the red wall   
 oh face   
 that a lack of spirit erases   
 flat stone laid in the morning  
 on the garden wall
 mixed breaths   
 face to face for all eternity.   


340

 
 Are you here     
 glissando without evasion   
 to carry me on the gentle wave   
 moon interview in the parlor   
 bark torn from the cork oak   
 weaving through the slow crowd   
 dazzled passenger   
 fragrant scents.  
 
 My soul   
 only   
 randomly on an outing   
 saw himself taken   
 in the flood of migrants   
 oh my soul   
 otherness is another identity   
 from the other to oneself   
 the very source of solidarity.   

 339

   Under the temple gutter  
 y'a romance  
 the saga of passing time  
 the procession of wooden soles
 the thrill of the reeds
 the hinge of a door
 that we open  
 and creaks  
 tomorrow or after tomorrow  
 nothing at all  
 arms dangling  
 eyes up  
 horizontally  
 festoons of clouds  
 beyond the sky  
 in mild syncope  
 on the clay pavement  
 to scratch with chipped nails  
 the passage of ants  
 in the river to be  
 towards the treeless  
 wrinkled sand.  


336

   My age         
 sitting against the tree    
 looked     
 extinguished tallow ball    
 at nightfall   
 an icebreaker poultice     
 back from mission   
 of father and mother the descendant   
 at the risk of knowing   
 terminal flame   
 my annals scattered   
 a windy evening   
 open career   
 and    
 last cartage   
 in cahoots   
 with the apocalyptic reasoner     
 our builder   
 our gravedigger   
 our inventor.  

  
337

   Discount tide   
 retroceded tide   
 countdown tide   
 deposited tide   
 recovery tide   
 will i see the last hiccup   
 slide down   
 the gorse slope   
 standby     
 pond sphagnum   
 my correspondence   
 in a good crew   
 speeding along   
 without waiting for me to die   
 ebbing crying   
 under the mercantile canopy   
 family links. 

  
338

   Black of Black     
 in the underground writing desk   
 from corolla to corolla   
 tighten the rope    
 between dog and wolf.   

 Capture the prosody   
 of the screeching of vultures   
 dizzying sailboats   
 garbage collectors of remains   
 without suspicion   
 without counterfeit   
 overwhelming with sadness.
   
 Rise of outstretched hands   
 sprung   
 white   
 of the anthracite wall   
 to the reflections of the moon   
 away from city lights   
 to the sound of whelks   
 sentinel draped in leather cloak   
 what does the cowherd wear   
 whip raised,   
 viaticum before the altar   
 where to surprise the avowed flaw.  
 
 The Grand Bédé stands   
 the screwed clown hat   
 on his forehead Frankenstein,   
 distaff gorilla   
 tagging on clay tablet   
 the wounds of his thought,   
 cuneiform traces   
 engraved on the doorstep   
 drip   
 of a sky crying to know itself loved.  

  
335

 In the green sun 
 of our childhood.  

 flowing water 
 from the well to the pond.  

 two newts  
 one male one female.   

 sweet scent  
 spring scents.  

 From top to bottom 
 the effigy is displayed.  

 The end clap 
 bite the dust.  

 Attached to barriers 
 the rainbow epilogue.  

 Tallow in the throat 
 the sliding of a rope. 
 
 The edge of desire  
 the landing net in hand.   
  
 Anything goes  
 everything reflects the presence. 
 
 In front of the mirror  
 cheerful face.  

 Move on from what's hard  
 to what is tender.  

 be in love 
 with oneself.  

 No theory 
 just an intensity from within.  

 Grace 
 we receive it. 

 Mom   
 stop telling me not to. 
 
 The transmission 
 a relay race.  

 Every soul is rich 
 attention to others.  

 full of butterflies 
 these weightless messengers.  

 Between broom and gorse 
 the walls open.  

 Spin the wind 
 avoiding dead ends. 
 
 Before the real silence 
 sweet romp. 
 
 Listen 
 the air to breathe.  


334