Hypothesis of Your Body




I know that they won’t believe me as a mirror without back
that a movement nails your naval vortex
where moments thousands first and second in a rock of pique
are already waiting for me gyrating in you.

Although he would say that you had no sea
nor that the foam of your interior of rock inhabits
nor that by the frothing of blood spitted out you are less alive
or worm-eaten,
but for the frequency of your freckles something congregated.

Because they waited for you when you were visible
if you raised your hands of concrete
clad in workingman’s clothes without calling card
while a great calling of flowers and pianos sounded
and in your profound pain you waste another violet
if solitary,
which in any case could not be possible.

All in an ordinary breeze arranged with feeling . . .

Because they waited in fear that he would clamor for your death:
“I compare you to a lighthouse”
explaining your hair slowly in the night.

It isn’t comparing.


                                          II



I imagine you naked inside
like a leonine dove in the earth
without a marine substance to torment.

Death in Life.

Yes or no a voyager in your forehead
 (not in thought nor with venom here
 the snake headless at the foot of the river
not leaving a crisp beach of singing sirens
nor a seal who reeks of spume and unravels
not in a humid moon in the rutting of animals
large for the ark, where they stand
tame lionesses doves and elephants)
by your flesh of stone at your chest of milk.
Myth in summary, but I play.

Life in Death.

How many roads lead to your navel
if made of roots grapple in the deep port of the earth
gateway to my earth yours of the sacred lock.

Tesomosme,  Mesomoste.
I will dig you a sepulcher in my other sex.
Dig for me a sepulcher in your other sex.
That I may die  You will live I will live You will die
I don’t distinguish ourselves.

Sesame.


                                  III



I confess that I arrive at your port underground
like the rock in sleep vegetable and alive sleeping
I have my house there where I await my spider blind
the same alive or dead your secret like silence.


Jose Coronel Urtrecho