My faith is pregnant with black hens.
I advance toward water urgently hitting
the aftermath of time. I’m the feeble god
that scratches the weight of terror.
Here the afternoon is an ulcer
but I like it because it’s in the latitude
of suckling knives which are the skin
of the dream in which you name me.
Look at how this love of wires and equinoxes
digs sea and sea, shovel and word.
I have a caterpillar and my Quevedian faith,
fertile and hairy as peace in a prairie.
This faith snores when it talks about your absence,
when it caresses the teenage udder of vinegar
at the foot of bravura.
Light creaks while I sing
to the feline heart of your number,
and my pencil trickles to the bad meat
of knowing who I am,
the open window to the muscle of a scream.
Clot, kiss and faith,
long-lived water in absent lightning.
Here my terrible and polymorphous heart
loves you in the simple milk of exploding pain,
tooth of salt, kidney of barefoot smoke,
constant marrow of the flame.