About Wolves

We are asleep in a desert, back to back,
facing the mirrors.
My hands, behind your head, do not move.

The dog comes, takes a bite of my flesh
and goes away.
I keep still.

In a while, another dog returns to take a bite of me
and goes away.
The words seal the perfect wounds.
I catch the reflection of each letter moving,
wrapping the scars on my leg
with water knots.

At midnight, the wolves arrive to stare at me,
hungry, getting closer and closer.
I do not fight, nor howl. I let them
tear my skin apart
as you dream and sigh in your sleep.

Not me, a new born poem
comes to light at your rib, in the mud.

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The Flesh of the Word

The danger with hiding a poet from sunlight
is that you can never tell if he, the poet,
will ever grow to see
the walking stone up the hill,
the fall which always follows
very soon after.

His bones will never solidify
to carry well the memories
of lost days,
the echoes of mourning
in this deserted city.

There, where he exists, camouflaged
by the old rags you wear to work every day
he looks so familiar
you can mistake him with ease
for a younger version of your self,
the one which has something to say
to the world
but no voice.

Trapped, both of you, in a
permanent sunset
faithful imaginary friends.

Nothing moves forward,
nothing goes backwards either
without the ripen flesh of the words.

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Post Scriptum

Sometimes I think I’m made of words
And not of flesh
A poet eating ice cream
On a tree leaf
But other times
My very flesh will make the words
Which float like water grains
On wooden tables.

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