Saturday, July 01, 2017

These hands: Elia Casillas

These hands with the smell of house, a rain that unties verbs, these hands are discovered in your eyes from the siren of a ship, without quadrant, without wind and without estuary. Beyond, I invoke tears for my executioners. They stun the days, where I celebrate your torch of affection with a poem that idealizes the ink poet, defoliate faith, in the hope of an emigrant. The night passes away with excesses and miseries, backlit I look for a song that unravels your legs, my legs,  the legs. I; Expert in manufacture  deads, I make a scapular of obsidian with your face, later, I leave the body wandering in the street and I am entertained with you, but you, only have fingers to see me.

 Chihuahua, Chihuahua. June / 7/2007

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