Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

A Poet's Epilogue The sudden flight of a startled butterfly reminds me of the serious impertinence of approaching matters without breaking with anguish, without forgetting the leaven of wounds. to be a stone in the depth of the stone I'd rather be a cross in the depth of the cross

About Profiles Sharpened in the light, like a sunrise doctoring himself in water, I look at how you lean on the magnet of your own shadow, as if you were a dream clock in the sweaty age of the planet. You are a fire cloud for the dolphin's plumage, the scar that travels from the nerve track of insomnia to the sulfur eyelid of an unclaimed god. I am the man, the throbbing eye in harmony with my uproar. Incurable tenderness suffocates me with the hands of oblivion because I speak alone to the crowds of your name. I am inside the small cavity of your dust with no possibility of a return, I look at you with the wise inconstancy of vinegar. I am the man, the dream, the eye.

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 explo