“Skeletons miles apart”


(2:40 P.M.)

Quick for the minute
“I sit alone in my four-cornered room
staring at candles...”
When I was young
Rimbaud meant freedom
Now I hear him as stages
The soil embraced, lying on grass
Skeletons miles apart
Connected by birds
Bands of guacamayas chatter
Loud dogs or the roar
of the city felt from
the cliffs and jungle
of el Ávila, from above

(3 P.M.)

“Waste of time, sitting still...”
A room with flowers for curtains
A hole in the mountain clouds
Research brought me to this
Fear that swaddles my limbs
Stomach emptied and weak
Noise of this pen upon your page
The drying of the day, rain clouds
Puffs on the line of the mountain
Migrations between two states
Back and forth legend of loss
Into the automated page, whispers
Upon branches, this point of doubt
The curve, the cure whose lips
Emit simple or drugged loops
Now the rain wipes the leaves
Only this interlude opens to close
A shudder for the line who wakes
Frequency tongue minimizes place
To a return, harder now, awash
Rain follows drought, heralds flesh
Four days and eternal sincerity
Ceremonial talk, hesitant
Aware of how much the words weigh
But also a decompression
As a film fades out on travel
Neither side fits the bracketed image
Like fantasy numbers lit up quest

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