There are no bones in poverty and
pain.     You advise me to write poems of
insanity, poems of a face eternally hidden

by laughter.     Spain's greatest architect
slept with you a quarter
of a century ago.     Now I am your youngest poet, and

fill your bed with ink.     In the other world, in
other words, I threw away my shoes looking
for you on the throat of a

flower.     The eyes of the brolacchan lack
the great gentleness of paradise.     And I live in the vague
terror you will call and offer me a summer song and coffee.