It may be but it’s not true

It may be but it’s not true

Sweet, sweet man

you turn on the light and leave,

torn clouds bring fresh memories,

and you so poor

            / inscrutable,

dumped on the breast of fire.

Your wife wants to set herself ablaze,

while a timid bush uncovers your essence.

It is the door through which you breathe the odor

that crowds bands of beast.

Poor boy        stopped in your tracks

            / by the hallucinating blow of       I can’t.

Death never insinuated itself to you more than dust.

It stood like a stone in your way,

while you gathered a cluster

of open, bleeding, dismembered guilt

in the faint-hearted act of resting

            / under the tender stupor of laurels.

No, you never were,

not in the slightest, the wings

the lavish dreams of broken hymen.

You did not feel like grazing

and autumn was a blurred city

in shadows

            / almost limpid,

a rotten pond bursting the grenade

you carry wedged between your legs.

You had no desire to graze

regardless of the bland frenzy of birds

that ripen thorns by pecking.

And they were thorns

            / if not why the blood

that springs from the root of the tree,

which rises like a mound,

an angel-proof grave,

where on the top of the grotto

            / volcanoes burst,

or consumptive beehives are uncovered.

You raised the lamp,

but your face in the mirror was a dim spot,

the fireproof steel was a lie,

quicksilver    a lie,

the rust was a lie.