Translation from Spanish by Igor Gerek
I write you, time’s ear
I write you,
when the light’s edge is an odd gesture.
In each step the clarity is a leaving shadow
who undresses in silence, as if the drizzle were gone
and its side stretches its arm, cleans my forehead.
Sometimes I climb the lights
until your isolated core
and I drink as a lost fish
in your belly-fountain,
were my gills lie down.
Sometimes I climb the lights,
I embrace the most solid twinkle,
the density of your sleeping skin
gravity that pronounces me.
Upright before the wind.
the noon’s warm gives us respite.
Time shows itself as an absurd permutation.
Behind each face
rehearses of catalepsy.
I blow into your bones once again,
I fall on my feet on your pupil.
You slide like a stifled cry.
Choral dance in the weave of your chest,
slow destruction of your solid dream,
of your self-absorption behind the sidewalks,
of your hidden abyss,
ashes, end of the route.
One word cools and falls down.
Disintegration of names,
they go toward the mouths
toward the pierced regions of skin.
The fissure in the dream observes us.
The arms’ asphyxia.
The sun walks inside
braids the night.
The pieces of the light enclose the membranes.
The learned words move back.
I sketch that countenance.
Its incomplete figure opens its eyes.
I organize you, I auscultate your skull,
I wash neatly the nostalgia,
I fasten it on the net in pieces.
I auscultate your skull.
Nostalgia of fish-scales.
The contact with the nets.
The circulation walks away.
Your clay skull at the edge of the temple.
In the shipwreck’s dance,
the beauty of the I so far from itself.
The eye that awaits for itself in front of the mirrors.
Disappearance and encounter with the outside.
I guide you with my blind eyes
and your fear turns back.
Sometimes the windows should be abandoned,
their appetizing frame,
their warm intermission.
You embrace the discontinuous sight.
It is not a misstep
when you lean on a moving soil
or you awake with the fright in the forehead.
This is a living soil,
like your blood moving forward.
I guide you with my blindness in blossom
so you can open that shadow in your chest,
and you can see the clear throat of the night,
and on the glowing soil
you can turn on your steps and dance;
because with a widened eye you will see
this territory’s fugue
the fugue of the simulated firmness,
the flight of the mortal boredom;
and you will follow my desolated lights
toward the inverse cardinal points.
They look at each other in the mirrors
and share out the fear of the reflection in flames,
they embrace the skeleton
or only their absents’ tibia
to hide themselves, you, rosy and tristy
and you cook vegetables,
Sometimes they count behind the walls
until one hundred, slow and silent
and they coincide in the shadows
I go down,
against my knees,
This is the hearing in your snore.
The deaf exploration that nourishes,
and makes us fall.
The clear route to the humus,
to the primordial struggle.
The inner insomnia.
The promise of outside.
The risk of the cutting threads
with their shiny edges,
delicacy of sleeping bees.
Announcement of a dangerous implosion
of the devoured flights over the delicious fever,
we touch asphyxia
in abundance of air
full of opacity and ashes.
 From Insomnio vocal (Alastor, 2016)