To You I Attribute My Blood’s Torrent

They’re words

with a wind’s urgency

lashing out against this body

covered in vegetable memories.

The soul tries to remain unscathed,

but there’s a hurricane shaking

even the shoes’ darkest corner.

Time’s watershed regards us, engrossed,

pregnant with rain ready to wash us away with motherly caresses.

It will be an everlasting coming and going of  hours.

But there’s no remedy for this clock singing of sleeplessness. 

How hurried is the morning with its faint flowers and fresh bread!

How deep is it?

our skin aged,

our lost and disordered papers, our bumpy journey through the day.

The doorways you cross are like mouths foreign to your own body.

On the old roof  there’s nothing but whispers: 

murmurs of  listless doves happening

by a bell with geometrical strokes. 

Nothing more than lips bitten by an erosion of language.

What’s deep is this scarred voice and strange navel with a Cyclops’s gaze.