From Sunday Morning Poem by Raúl Zurita

XXXVIII
Over the cliffs of the hillside: the sun
then below in the valley
the earth covered with flowers
Zurita enamored friend
takes in the sun of photosynthesis
Zurita will now never again be friend
since 7 P.M. it's been getting dark
Night is the insane asylum of the plants

XLII
Enclosed with the four walls of
a bathroom: I looked up at the ceiling
and began to clean the walls and
the floor the sink all of it
You see: Outside the sky was God
and he was sucking at my soul —believe me!
I wiped my weeping eyes

LVII
In the narrow broken bed
restless all night
like a spent candle lit again
I thought I saw Buddha many times
At my side I felt a woman's gasp for air
but Buddha was only the pillows
and the woman is sleeping the eternal dream

LXIII
Today I dreamed that I was King
they were dressing me in black-and-white spotted pelts
Today I moo with my head about to fall
as the church bells' mournful clanging
says that milk goes to market

LXXXV
They've shaved my head
they've dressed me in these gray wool rags
—Mom keeps on smoking
I am Joan of Arc
They catalog me on microfilm

XCII
The glass is transparent like water
Dread of prisms and glass
I circle the light so as not to lose myself in them