the day gives us no truce
we open our eyes we stretch our arms
and we are already patching the air, the walls, the penury
the upper lip of death the red bug of the cross
We run with the palms of our bare hands on each
finger then a pen a leaf a praise the
God kiss every day and in our mists the hour
the day, love not love love love love, does not give us
truce and we run covering the cracks of the world that
makes water for all the times that
we are and despite lead and gunpowder and war and
your desire to kill me and come back to life and sink into
the thorn of your blood a song, you beyond you and
what about the moon of the daughters of the turnstiles around the
foot: the day gives us no respite, my love, it does not let us flee.
We are putting words to cover the rails, the gaps through
where they spy from other galaxies this little gray and beautiful garden
where, against all odds,
we tied up we love without giving us a minimum advantage
day.