Strictly to the letter
to Rodrigo, mi son…
who knows how to blend with the profiles of the landscape
and how to celebrate himself
I lend nothing I give away everything
so as not to grant a habitat to emendations
I do not wait for the wave to undo the moorings
of my bones
but I do wait, yes
for the dragonfly which I reach in random order
and which allows itself to be touched
by the essence that does not limit
from over here where at present I trace
caress
with this sandy humanity
so much a labyrinth of stone and porosity
where Diaspora and containment become intimate
breathless
I wait yes
in the other’s heart
and Eco’s rose
without potions to consecrate
the threshold I did not immolate
-in good time