For as long as the skin
of the squid is the pigeon,
the ivory horn is the
mannequin's digit.
The rust of the anchor
blankets the phantom
who sits in a tub of mules.
He twiddles the appendages
of ocelots.
Who's cries banished the
noise of an arranged murder.
He sits with liquids
he has drawn.
The apprehension of his palm;
the noose to fill on doomsday.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem