between my hand and the object that comes to meet with difficulty, the needle
the haystack, the key in the current prodigious,
the pearl shines as an appearance in the tremor of the dune-
other hand that always arises is ahead of the game in my hand,
that fits like a fierce cast these miraculous condensation
desire and takes away from a blow my fragile withdraw membership
like earning a bet with my docile unknown destination.
Among my hand and object to it, without searching and without penalty,
-table like a beast on the prowl, the chair with his hidden intention of flight, the lamp
sanctified by their aura of home-
popess always arise another table, one lamp, one chair, wrapped in color from elsewhere;
adulterated visions deposits loss and forgetfulness, a parade
unreal to me like a curtain prevented from reaching the end of each trip.
between my hand and the object trapped after an arduous battle
-the glass at the bottom of the flower opens the shores impossible
the pebble that beats like a bird, the cockroach that I stopped by the foot-
arise Always wrap a thick glass or ice, transparent distances
interposing its lightness like a dream insurmountable
and reject my last dive in the secret heart of things.
between my hand and another hand that is coming to stay or goodbye
divisions there are only illusions, mirages of the verb in each name,
destinations that are only fragments in the custody of the heavens burst
struggling to reintegrate interchangeable and the substance only of God but arise
slogans like tombstones, bones, bodies dug in solitary
bonfires and glaciers that draw borders and show me my place.
And there is no access, no
permeable surface under the glove of stupor
attached to this hand gliding, others, against the walled hardness of the planet.
No. 5 of the night drifting (1984)
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