As I cannot tame reality
to stop this endless cold war,
I write about the sphere,
I am the sunset,
I am Bach,
I turn into a raft.
I focus
and look for identity
in this tunnel
of light.
I become an eye
filled with rains of words,
I become an ear
which captures
the green of grass
and leaves,
an arm which turns into an oar,
while sadness
becomes the boat
- doubling the sadness
of the waters
of reality,
this plenitude
from which I drink
the salt,
burning
the rope
of this time
and this space
which strangle me.

Adagio

My son adorning
this flower
with pearls. To tame it,
he says. It looks carnivorous.
Me, adorning
this desert with words.
Adagio of butterflies.

Untitled

If you want to be
the iris breath
don't avoid the whirl
created by the magnetism
of violet.
Knowledge
is achieved
by beggining
to be a curve,
a twirl,
a pit.
This continous twist,
this painful explosion
is a failure.
But more than this
is movement
in the jail of time,
of your body.
Light carves me way
in this tunnel
in which my only chance
is to pass
like an iris breath
into another color.

Poetry Magazine