Monday, July 24, 2017

Elia Casillas

I alternated what remained in the coffin, with a faithful measure of the kilo occupied. I only left the time of Joaquín Sabina, the skin of foreigner, the remedies of Jaime Sabines and two autumn leaves. I do not need lumps, not even a gypsy profile. I only ask in the backpack the last dream, the sea, ah that sea, fish rings and mermaids, where the gulls still bring news of gods in the beak. Sea in me before birth, sand in every duel, turtles excited with their suckers that do not run anymore, without roses work their cemetery of shells, in each sacrificed child. Purple sunset, seductive sun, combustible lord of the work, lithograph of my flesh, palm trees, accomplices of drunks and needs of one another clueless,  palms of the red hill, doses of eroticism on the roof catwoman, troublemakers of dog confusions jolting him ardent to the night. Ghosts of the Port in drying clothes, sentinels of rivers and enchanted houses consult kisses in lanterns a day of dead.

San Luis Potosí, San Luis Potosí. April / 27/2004

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