My species is not water or fire or air or land only, but when I set
the samples I know with rusty pins.
But from my side and
odd times and in those days when you open the lid of the moment and is distinguished background
if I tear my thick layer and leave me in the dark without the protection of my name,
see that I belong to this strange family of transparent metamorphosis, incomplete
that order is set to a color like salt in the world
or take the form of that it contains, and is a key
well as an absence.
Just a word suddenly penetrate my side by side, especially if
forever, especially if ever, or perhaps, or too much,
to be printed as a burn to the basement of my anatomy.
Because that's my substance: an animal hiding in the woods,
incorporating fingerprints, smoke and soles for the grass that runs between your teeth.
I devoured the landscape, each piece of instant eternity, with my own food. I copied
views are closer to me that my eyes, burning like
images inlaid glass in a wound.
treasure It is not by begging upon dark splendor of avaricious counts. For communions
exposure,
by vocation and caress attachment even in the face goodbye, goodbye to impossible, let me invade
for things as remote as a country I've never been, that as I
I am a tattoo look red, ranging
bluff on a platform which is enveloped by fog my destiny,
a door ajar for a blast that blows cold makes me breath,
almost anyone.
But it never be complete; not appear Length achievement.
And what consist this unfinished nature
constantly veering into other highlights, other borders and other permanence?
What could be my kingdom in this mixture, under this inexhaustible propensity
that encompasses much more than weeds, feathers and stones changing?
Perhaps the kingdom of the lost unity between shadows, the kingdom
absorbed from the nostalgia me first and the last breath.
No. 12, the night drifting (1984)
