Poems

The Speaking Hour

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

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