Your image

Here

Fluttering like a stolen shirt

And I am in your hands

A painting not yet completed

The artist died on his way to me

 

After all these years

I grow like grass following a storm

 

I am the grapes of fault

And you the vine

We haven't pressed enough to last the night

The night that forgot to close its eyes

The hanging lamps swing against the dark

And the knot that binds us is an ancient tree

We warm ourselves with its wood

I see the scars of my voice on your back

And darkness surrounds us like a white eagle

who left an egg on my windowsill

 

Like a clock hung on the horizon

When I looked at you

I understood how late it was

And when I wet my finger the first time

In your navel

My head turned a full circle

You were my neck

 

My fingers made kites

I blew on my hands

And the wind was blown

I hunt the Cork Oak

Through the sea of nights

I have been drinking a long time

No one came after me

Except afloat

 

Choose winter

And the rain is on me

Pour me a glass

And purse your lips

We almost got drunk

The night is before us

Many paint the morning

On our backs

Too meagre for two bodies

 

I am the grapes of fault

And you fill me as blood fills 

A fresh wound

The mirror is behind you

As you comb your hair

In the white of my eyes