again at night as a teenager
through the kitchens my worthless poems...
you who knew so well
to read the states,
to relate to unseen causes...
you who had a black veil
covered with the lamp
when you wanted to find your body cellar,
there on the corner on the left
the dead-head butterflies
and you with your love, your sheets of heart
in the thought of an imaginary woman...
you, running under the red lanterns...
when sperm simmers, when it rains, when the silence dances...
were disputing the space between two prayers...


you can do what you want,
all I bring without knowing
in this paper--shameless!
each poem there is a rape
every fiction is the refuge of a masochist
from where this need
for sex-intelligence,
from which so many insinuating curves
in the cyclic blood of the rose...
I think of the common man
on the cross of a woman,
I think of the red air
from the nostrils of a stained
defer tomorrow...the description of
a park with imaginary footsteps!