On Warm Afternoons

On Warm Afternoons

Your whispers call me,

write the prophecies that die

on my skin. I overflow in concave,

flexible moments where everything

I have invented about you fits.

I never find the tender caravan of fans

with which you cover your body,

or the mutual days of ecstasies

in the spaces of time. The reason hides

in the shape of a bronze stone man.

My imagination peeks to protect

and avoid melting at inopportune moments

of love. This is how blood travels 

to the farthest corners of my tested sweetness,

inhabiting the limits of your lusts full of mysteries.

I escape your burning witchcraft with hands

ready to rescue old tenderness.

The swift banks of my memory

suppress drunken details. I hear

a dissertation embedded in the vases

of death, the abys that rubs

my shortcomings on your chest

curls up, breaks the windows

of your beach. Draws snakes

with fangs that steal my hours of rest

then stretches out on your seashore

and wallows in your love spell

like cushioned silence of parsley.