Written on the Breath of a Crystal

Written on the Breath of a Crystal

My faith is pregnant with black hens.

I advance toward water urgently hitting

the aftermath of time. I'm the feeble god

that scratches the weight of terror.

Here the afternoon is an ulcer

but I like it because it’s in the latitude

of suckling knives which are the skin

of the dream in which you name me.

Look at how this love of wires and equinoxes

digs sea and sea, shovel and word.

I have a caterpillar and my Quevedian faith,

fertile and hairy as peace in a prairie.

This faith snores when it talks about your absence,

when it caresses the teenage udder of vinegar

at the foot of bravura.

Light creaks while I sing

to the feline heart of your number,

and my pencil trickles to the bad meat

of knowing who I am,

the open window to the muscle of a scream.

Clot, kiss and faith,

long-lived water in absent lightning.

Here my terrible and polymorphous heart

loves you in the simple milk of exploding pain,

tooth of salt, kidney of barefoot smoke,

constant marrow of the flame.