The Triumph of Death
In some future moment, I’m already dead.
I now rise over glassy cities
dead, alive, that have spread roots
in the stony clouds and
have forgotten their names
as the light wind takes them away
never to return.
A machine inside a cloud
cuts people
who fall
rain
and dew
and hail
a gust of wind
the inverted death
the rotten belly
the insatiable uterus.
Come, then
rider of a cloud
cauterize this uterus
cauterize this belly
not death, not death
become inverted life
don’t even become poetry
not even.
Libros Libertad 