Toma la Dignidad, Dame la Vida
El aire seca su miga, toda su miga.
Tendido en un lecho de sal.
No se afeita con cuchilla de aljibe.
Se pasa la ortiga de la mano. O no se la pasa.
Se levanta para vacar.
Los rosales, las prímulas,
el seto.
Los ve.
A pleno día,
en las barbas de una prímula,
le muerde la rota
dentición del pan negro.
(él muerde la carne de no morder.)
Plata en el pelo y plata en los ojos.
Se aferra a su chaqueta
como a la vida,
aunque busca los plátanos,
cuerdos, tropicales,
el álamo espermático.
El hilo de la vista
a punto de rotura.
La piel,
escrita en lengua muerta,
dice:
“Dame gazpacho.
Dame tortilla.
No quiero postre.
O el postre eres tú.”
No mezcla su sangre
con la espuma del mar.
No llora
su lágrima de té.
Piensa:
“He sido honesta almohada,
firme cabecero, sano pino,
serio sueño.”
Enhebra paja
en una aguja.
Cortar el seto
sería como follar,
tener treinta, cincuenta.
La camisa no oculta
el silencio
de un bosque de bonsáis.
Él ya no abre y no cierra
el monedero
que
desde hace años
ella no abre y no cierra.
Es el búho
que en lo blanco del día
cruza ante el sol
y eriza el vello.
Aún es la fecha y el mundo.
Take My Dignity, Give Me Life
The air dries his flesh, all of his skin.
Lying on a bed of salt.
He doesn’t shave with the ice razored over the cistern.
He rubs the nettle of his hand across his face. Or he doesn’t.
He stands to be idle.
The roses, the primroses,
the hedge.
He sees them.
In the middle of the day,
on the whiskers of a primrose,
he bites the black bread’s
broken dentition.
(He bites the unbiteable meat.)
Silver in his hair and silver in his eyes.
He hangs on to his jacket
as if to life,
even though he looks for bananas,
reasonable people, tropics,
the spermatic poplar tree.
His sight line
about to break.
Flesh,
written in a dead language,
says:
“Give me gazpacho.
Give me omelet.
I don’t want dessert.
Or you are dessert.”
He doesn’t mix his blood
with the froth of the ocean.
He doesn’t cry
his tears of tea.
He thinks:
“I have been an honest pillow,
a sturdy headboard, a healthy pine,
a serious dream.”
Thread straw
through a needle.
Cutting the hedge
would be like fucking,
being thirty, fifty.
A shirt doesn’t conceal
the silence
of a bonsai forest.
Now he no longer opens or closes
his coin purse
that
for years now
she doesn’t open or close.
He is the owl
that passes in front of the sun
in the white of day
and makes your hair stand on end.
It is still the date and the world.
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