THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC

The man who rushed into most remote grief
        without one single rose
with those eyes that kept their ochre so coarse,
        pushing into the half-uncovered deserted chapel
the large crippled silence in the wheelchair of speech,
always aware of the inexhaustible situation: that we are    
        blood-stained amateurs of the Real
with a mystery which desecrates the intellect dividing
before the skin of the sea, raises Hades that much
    higher.
The massive torrential storm smashes the eyeglasses and
        great
    fear seizes coming events,
        forming abscesses in memory.
    Flat on the ground of the unquenched silence, a mobile
    worm memento.
The life that grows shorter: the great truth.
    Whomever the hoe digs in becomes part of hoeing,
whomever drinks the water becomes part of drinking.
Spring comes ever-virginal offering fragrances,
    holding by the thinnest of jet-black threads
        in the open air of night
the spot where the small owl is, unknown beyond . . .

THE STARRY PHOTOGENIC