ARPILLERA Y POLVO

  LOVIS CORINTH

ARPILLERA Y POLVO

                                              LOVIS CORINTH

ARPILLERA Y POLVO

LOVIS CORINTH

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

          HUMMINGBIRD

Suppose I say summer,
write the word “hummingbird,”
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.

Raymond Carver.

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

        MATRIX AND DREAM

Inaudible things, chipped

nightly away:

breath, underground

through winter: well-words

down the quarried light

of lullaby rill

and chasm.

You pass.

Between fear and memory,

the agate

of your footfall turns

crimson

in the dust of childhood.

Thirst: and coma: and leaf—

from the gaps

of the no longer known: the unsigned message,

buried in my body.

The white linen

hanging on the line. The wormwood

crushed

in the field.

The smell of mint

from the ruin.

Paul Auster

ARPILLERA Y POLVO

 LOVIS CORINTH