Yesterday it rained in the future.
Water soaked my embarrassments.
My set of dishes.
I sail on the flood’s rise to the image of a cork.
My canoe is light as a stamp.
These waters have no other edge.
From here I only glimpse the border of the sky.
(Might a vulture have his eye on me?)
I am lined up with the cup of the leaves.
Fish eat caranda fruits in the stands of palm trees.
In the cell of Pedro Norato, twenty three years in seclusion,
death naps with its legs open …
Between the prison bars it weeds its way in.
It has the blighted sleep of thighs.
Norato told me he found a woman inside a pot and then drank her.
It is without love we find ourselves with God, he told me.
The world is not perfect like a horse, he said.
In clocks, he sees trills of water.
He beats a salute for the flies.
I return home by the gutters.
Being a rock
I have the pleasure of lying on the ground.
I only deprive lizards and butterflies.
Certain shells take shelter in me.
Mosses grow from my interstices.
Birds use me to sharpen their beaks.
Sometimes a heron occupies me all day.
I feel praised.
There are other privileges to being a rock:
a—I irritate the silence of insects,
b—I am the beat of moonlight in solitude,
c—In the mornings I bathe in dew.
d—And the sun compliments me first.
The moon makes silence for the birds,
—I hear the scandal!
A red perfume thought me into being.
(Do I contaminate the twilight?)
These empty considerations restrict me more.
Some pieces of me are already in exile.
* * *
(Is it good sense that increases absurdities?)
At night I drink water from a packed lunch.
I use wind for self-maintenance.
I uneat without opulence.
Excuse my delicacy.
I never lived far from my country.
However I suffer from farness.
In my childhood my mother had the illness.
She was the one who gave it to me.
Later my father went to work at a place
that gave this illness to people.
It was a place without a name or neighbors.
People said it was the nail on the toe at the end of the world.
We grew up without any other houses nearby.
A place that offered only birds, trees, a river and its fish.
There were unbridled horses in the scrub grass,
their backs covered with butterflies.
The rest was only distance.
Distance was an empty thing we carried in the eye,
what my father called exile.