It isn't possible to laugh in turbidity,
I bury myself at every step on loving sand
like a rattlesnake that sound in the desert
and from which all people flee.
They hang from me their kisses;
they can't be touched by the daylight,
remaining as erect flowers under the ice
between ammonites of oblivion.
Through this door entered Juliet,
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: love