Poetry

In moonscape, a flower
remedy, enters the white
smoke of your eyes. An open―
house shuts.

The coal writes its name on
blue skin. We were slaves of our
own deeds. I want to go back to
my ancestors, to learn the clock.

Unheard the suicide of
a viper, eating its own venom.
The fat people will come in line―
to pay homage.

White caps and black caps in
thick silence, drink the empty glasses,
cutting the meat of the books―
and reading again the sky.