There are so many, my God, there are so many
the silent daily deaths, that one
in order to go dying in turn,
in order not to twist the fish that snowed its mouth
in the blue hive of a staircase
that leads to the floor where the Mother
does the math in the moonlight,
does not see, does not sense,
and the rhythm grew in each piece of furniture
with which the rose offers to the naked sun
its widow's nipples, its demiurge hips, its worm's solitude, Holy God, how was it possible for so many of us to die,
where did the roots of the elms keep
so much bricklayer's blood, so much ground bone
of fishermen, so much woman's foam
on the earth, one goes daily
so distracted looking for shoes that
weigh no more than a shadow, one goes up
and down from one's years
a gray nurse who cuts out
the sweet names with which one's lovers
have left on one's mouth
the pristine poison
with which love makes us vanish.
So many workers die,
that the machines and cranes and tractors
and every hammer and sandpit, muscle and pliers
are in mourning in spring,
the skin of the ceiba tree does not match the summer,
there is so much daily death.
White corpses laughing at the
bus stops, white dead
who pay for their half bag of bread,
dead people who hit transnational companies with a closed fist
around a resume that does not
report that their son has been given a medal
in the karate exhibition.
White dead people who twist their mouths
eaten by the beauty
of daily anger.
Good God, there will be new dead people today,
what are the heavens doing, I wonder,
with so much flesh.