obituary.

he's not. time grows in windows like

an androgynous tree

chases in the flesh heights and signs

of birth

I hear the leaves moan

from milk breasts sag like

a cancer of the form

I'm an acrobat with a talent for falling beautifully

the falls are vague

arrange in the mirror his honesty

under the mask of a buffoon

I'm not. I live among magazines with

beautiful people

I look for beauty in all its forms

I find mine in my hands

that untie that separate

there's a castle in with magazines

shining with perfumes

with magic potions with silk and cashmere with jade and

saffron life here has other rules

the way the taftaua whistles is music

the red shines on the lips like poetry

Here to give you

perfume is the deepest act of introspection.

here I live. on my shoulders I wear the cape

of superficiality and in my hand I hold the mirror.

he. someone says he loves me

the saddest, saddest love

(for I am unreachable) built in the living space

between the game pieces.

Me. I bury myself in the coffee desert in the green

in the purple of the peacocks I forget the open window

in the morning I wake up doing

making love in front of the athenaeum

dozens of cars pass through the bodies

waiting at the traffic lights for the end

touching the end of the kiss

the subway rides under the folds

the electric cable tangles me

treacherously arched

I hold my breath a red butterfly of

autumn butterfly clings to my ribs.

e animation/ semper fidelis

here's the untouchability here's the touch.