Poem of the Week

X

How to return to isolation

when there is no more time

in this eternity?

The war was our peace,

the storm, our

     sky,

pleasure: pain and

                howling

Today, the sun,
tomorrow, the sea,

and often Homer reciting

the Iliad in a city in Arabia

XI

Why does the sky rounding

the mountains make itself

so scarce, and why this

look?

Everything turns into

breath, even

stone columns

My childhood knew nothing of the

power of women, they

resembled sheets

of ice

Blood, in California, has

a dark color and

unknown reasons

If it’s not light,

Being is metaphor

     I am this thing passing

     before me

XII

She died

the day of the lunar

eclipse,

as she lived

Infinity weighs on the

body

and the sea is of treacherous marble

And here are my finds:

the perimeter of Crete,

the wells of the Great South, the

closed eyes of a love

The day is not made of

light, but of

will