“…when their fear turns into desire”

                                           DANTE, INFERNO, CANTO III, Verse 126

Groups of seagulls over the waves

gossip about the light

they comment about its failings

the worse of them all: night.

Something sweet, like syrup

is formed inside me

and it is the fear of the black hole

over which I hang

like a little fly.

I hear prodding:

Come, come to dance

your limpid dance

on the slippery surfaces of nostalgia

come, come to say

the last little words

about how the internal was poured out

and the external ravaged the insides

abolishing the hierarchy

of the dreams.

Ah, what an inclination for Paradise this is!

As if a godly blue man

waited under the tree

as if you planned for a long voyage

with your finger on the map

like a poem that pops out warm

a passing god would know

how among all the tears

the inspiration of death

rises unimpeded.