the bowl of fruit, the spiciness.
roll on the table.
(An incarnate gift illuminates
internal balance)
And it’s me,
whistling against liquors,
distributing calm to the fruits,
which removes voracious teeth
from this day… nothing
rushes to the end of the taste,
nothing was thrown on the chairs
of enea.
Sit in the light, I tell you
to ghosts.
Matisse. Ray of sunshine. 1917
Sunbeam
The snake in the bush
awaken those who are hidden.
Don’t mind the marble tears
or if they hang from certain branches
invisible death He whistles,
rumors behind the ibis
who cries, sacred, astonished
to look like a mosquito in water.
NOW
It’s time to live after all.
The snake
slide through affliction,
among the emeralds.
