IX
From above the eyebrows
where most are numb
a family tree of open mouths
sweats out the vertigo of time.
The saints reveal their white teeth
and small spheres, dials break open
in the guts of this page.
I am not a statue of salt
(I did not look back, I did not return)
until the air recovered
its own nature.
The black flowers live
in the fantasy of a murderess hag.
I know it like Hansel and Gretel
and all the other kids
who live with phrases written on their crawling flesh.
The black quails live
in the hand bag of a killer
and struggle
in the cave of her infantile sex.
In the night that exists
inside the night
brilliance is born from the kitchen knife
and it touches the girl's white throat:
the day emanates from her weak pulse.
The quails attack each other with their beaks
(flaps beat the air below).
The reverse of the page bleeds ink blots
of the sleeping girl in the lobby of the Princess Hotel
as my father, no more than a boy,
sleeps in a room beside his mother.
Mythology, invaded by cancerous gods,
she won't suffer Europe 's fate.
She will foresee the future with the bull's face in the distance
and steal the body from the foam: escape from time
in the sinuous stroke of the beach.
It is born from the day.
It creates the day.
The day makes light.
And the bull will be defeated in the damp pages
of a newspaper dated in May, 1976.
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