Eras exactly as I remember: sleeping
a shallow sleep on a bed of iron, oxygen
starved to death after a fight,
his mouth twisted and eyes floating in air,
tearing your skin to see inside.
Inspiration then sought to verses
necks swaying in a row of barbed wire,
looking for a human voice within language, sex
testimony in the crunch of the other sex:
writing was to exhume the body of a buried alive. In that underworld
not fit indoors or eyelids
illuminated by the sun to pieces;
lips not made to feel
of moving blood in the middle of a poem
or see on the horizon more than a metaphor.
The hypothesis of memory is
Madrid sky or the moon in 1997 in London ten years earlier
sea monsters in the gaps of memory, mysterious
species that appear to come from another universe
and other time that no longer exist except
paper thickness
hundred thousand waves churning in the book that I will never write. ________________________________________________
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