death is without logic and only a circle
placed outside another to fix the limit
of the glowing mass of our volcanic lives ..
every thought has its own egg as a hiding place
for shooting stars and breakneck exercises
the core of our pointless leaps into survival ..
the dark cathedral may easily be transformed into amniotic fluid
set free by the moon’s quivering fingertips
like flotsam towards all our chained enigmas ..
in the linguistic search for new paintings
the goal is what can save us from point zero
while the trough between the waves drowns out all our cries ..
life’s energy discharge and the planet’s rotation
are not only remedies against sleep
but against the sound of glass ringing in our throat ..
in order to have the rainbow drip from our armpits
and green sprouts grow out of the lovers’ eyes
this brief story is lifted onto a broader plane?
see the human being drag a wing across the earthen floor
and the army of black shoes which hone the corner of the world
back on the wet asphalt lies only a run-over moon