Narcissus’s Death

Narcissus’s Death


Narcissus, Narcissus,
the antlers of the murdered deer,
fish, flames, flutes, are nibbled fingers.
Lips are paths, sad flames, waves biting hips.

Cold fish of the green, air in the mirrors
without stretch marks, flocks of pigeons
hidden in the dead throat, daughter
of the arrow and the swan,
seashell in the wave, uninterested cloud,
foam hangs from the eyes,
not offered marmoreal drop,
a heron needs to wander!

You hear fruit like screams in the snow,
the secret in converted geraniums.
Silk whiteness ascending spilled lips,
open oblivion to the islands. Swords and
eyelashes surrender to the dream,
render the mirror on an impure seashore.
Moist lips not on the seashell search
for the straight thread. They are slaves
of dry contours. The air bites the litmus
that changes its sound
into blond litmus of salt lime.

If he goes through the mirror,
the waters that stir the ears boil.
If he leans on its edge or on his forehead
the centurion gouges his side.
If he recites, bees penetrate his gaze
and the letters inside the dream frown.

Airwaves wrap the albino secret,
the harpooned skin coloring mirrors
of memory, the minute of silence.
It transverses endless whiteness
in the dry flames and drizzled leaves.
Uncreated bees bite the wake of his ship,
demand they be given the gunwale.
This is how the mirror found out
Narcissus took to the sky in the middle
of high water without wings.