even on the nape of the neck he wears the butterfly
the smell of magnets overflowing fantasy, one thing was
safe in those days: God could turn us to stone with
just think about it,
the valley of mourning turned you into a poet just by having breathed in
the shadow of God, but then from Peru or Guatemala
news came, they released the dogs of poetry, they crossed
the Atlantic, that gourmet soup with too much sugar, they crossed
from far away Italy women who carried on their buttocks all the
untimely failure of love, men who promised the
sun, moon, lightning of Zeus, wrath of Hera, sex
stuffed in broccoli closed under vacuum, soul packed in pickle, displays and packaging at ninety-nine percent,
weight on weight, wrinkle on wrinkle, shrink on shrink,
the scar left by the fire in the ash sometimes resembles crying
of a butler who has lost his mind,
even on the nape of the neck he wears the butterfly
a black wig, a red pole sunk in the mist,
your brown eyes, your arm raised to the umpteenth power and I,
that I have broken the paths where the fairies pass,
seen and considering that life smells like mustard and
cinnamon, I throw from each house the piled clothes, the appliances
electric, the light of May.
this is, at all voices, a declaration of war.