There are those who walk the world
without staining your feet,
that go in and out of love
like from a supermarket or a hairdresser,
that before the sudden death of a bird
they open a yawn in the mouth of the world.
There are those who walk the time
without impregnating itself with any perfume,
not even the slightest cardito bites their clothes
Not a drop of mud falls asleep.
They're lucky, I tell myself, they've been blessed
by the god of longevity and warmth.
I'm always smelly of everything around me
I smell pulp to horse to hunger to sex
to orange to marrow to bus to dog.
I go in and out of love as tormented
of beauty, with crutches and orthopedic neck.
There is usually more mud on my feet
than in the landscape around me.
Thistles and thorns stick to my back
and fencing of fallen leaves in the mouth.
I have been blessed by the god of the premature,
I'm gnawed and uneven, always on the edge
of the precipices. There are those who walk unharmed
and pass through every door frame unscathed.
There are others who splinter life
tapping it gently against the stones
to find out what's inside.