Sharpened in the light,
like a sunrise doctoring itself in water,
I look at how you lean on the magnet
of your own shadow, as if you were a dream clock
in the sweaty age of the planet. You are a fire cloud
for the dolphin’s plumage, the scar that travels
from the nerve track of insomnia
to the sulfur eyelid of an unclaimed god.
I am the man, the throbbing eye
in harmony with my uproar.
An incurable tenderness suffocates me
with the hands of oblivion
because I speak only to the crowds
of your name. I am inside the small cavity
of your dust with no possibility of a return,
I look at you with the wise
inconstancy of vinegar.
I am the man,