Back in the echinopsis of cowboys
Alma sticks her tongue out at me at high noon
In a cathedral of carnivals,
Like gum sticks to the roofs of school buses,
And fifty percent of the crossed legs are
Virgins:
In the cafeterias, a play- In the art class, her hands
On wet clay,
Spinning around,
Turning into something really useful:
And on the land trucks:
And in the sky birds. All of it wonderfully colored,
Absurd:
But at night graveyards, cool sacks, leftovers,
Beautiful ashes of cooled embers,
And nocturnal firelight:
The ruby jewel of her eyes, even without warmth:
A tool for suicide,
A rich memory to keep death warm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem