I look at the house
the house next to the dunes
our house to which it arrives
from the southern wing of the continent
the ancient voice of the sea,
older than deer
than the birds
than any other voice
because, love, there are those who say
that before God was the sea,
I don't know about flowers or plants
but I know that the house
he has his garden
and that that garden that you take care of with your hands
It has, I swear, the same naked smell
that your naked body or maybe
it's the other way around
and it is the garden
this house
the sandy street that leads to this house
the trees that surround this house
maybe this piece of heaven above us
anyway
the world has taken your scent
and smelling a stone a flower a horse
be without knowing
smelling your feet your sex your hands
I look at the house
surrounded by green orchestras
the sand the sea the streets of snails
and I know that no one but us
see that scenery.
It doesn't matter, love, I'm not surprised.
Nor does anyone understand my ship's heart.
And no one sees me
eating your heart
and no one sees you either
eating my heart
I look at our house next to the Atlantic
and embrace your genealogy of terrible goddess
and you say my name
sweetly
and with that enough for my ribs
crazy furious tender
the wonderful giant octopus of life.