A White, Carlos Launaz, and Miguel Cuadrado.
TODAY HAS ARRIVED IN A LETTER
from Island No. 67 Capital, Surf Avenue, Marsh,
know the sun and algae, by day and the wind, your back tanned by history, and I have received
in the room of clocks at the end of my eyes, how many nights I
scented hands with your words,
but how many years I have painted her mouth with the lipstick of your words,
and I have wrapped the furs
wild in my body soft as rivers, mild winter, soft ...
to see you again undressed in front of me
under transparent silks where your voice lives seized by the honey, I could caress
adverbs your hair, lipstick
had a neologism glorious
saw that in your legs had dots, and your breasts smell
to Oohhh! of children when the stories
to Oohhh! in fireworks, with a great magic trick,
and your arms were two exclamation marks that safeguard your existence, your existence
that glitters
your life mother of the vowels that spell a new alphabet.
You both trailed by now intend to stop writing forever.
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