Third Hour
In the third hour an uncoiling
anaconda tongues his wounds and
breeze from the wave of silence
mouths an unction of sound
as the young Jehovah rushes on stage
like some college crasher
and I, holding a lone paper flag
in the windless room, hope
for a movement pointing to its loss
as the absurd indifference to
the simple kiss of the cherubic lips
of a young girl eludes the cosmic
and repulses the brash boy volcano
jolting just enough lava to scorch
trees down the mountainside
and stiffen testicles of
valley villagers irony sings
when callow anaconda bites his
flesh and the cold blood turns
to a stifling hot pus
camouflaging its peeling skin
In all boredom He throws
a lonely oak onto the far bank
of the river and He calls it
today’s miracle
stunned oak shrugs its
shoulders as all its leaves cry
at the scene of egomaniac
bishop who quarters a heretic
curtly and counting a few coins
in his pocket declares:
who cares?
Libros Libertad 