The day twists on me
the word, I must not say
the myopic arrhythmia of my poor lengths
that erode
of the corrupt syllable
the sepia street of personal dog days
degrades me
and of the intimate woman she tries
and hopes to arrange
she tends to cook, to accommodate that
reason of hers within me
of a certain ochre color
my day another, that appears to continue
whether to tend, she
of Marian sheets doesn’t twist,
secret,
her visceral texture, of her, woman, in my other morning,
distant,
of rough matter
her red hand
full of word-feather-red
lets itself be dyed
her (my) resonance of guilt now, as mudic
slides
She says, she says
she heard tell that juan doesn’t talk anymore
or say hello
that his eyes
tend to walk
between cages, also slow from the cage
the morning
of sun, pulled out his tongue
and of many one, his erosion and the height of his chair are now
before one
and of juan,
just a little bit,
hardly anything remains of juan
poet
(I begin to understand)
and his wife,
happy, she, of juan, shows him us walking
full of color()s, now
because not even the smell of shit
is noticed in the gaze
and there is no more to sweep
no more shit
she
says in the morning without juan’s tongue
and mariana
she, my wife
pities her from the window
and sometimes
I do too.
(from Los días arqueados [The arched days], 2017)
Translated by Arthur Dixon
