I mean: I return, and with a fist
Vallejo's verse strikes me:
"no one knows where these four walls end."
You are the tissue of a poem
carried by the wind.
I am a stone of iron buried in the desert,
this is the truth, unexpected
"through my cell I go, you through your song."
POLICE EFFICIENCY
Poetry is the height of letters.
- Juana Rosa
Your poems are lost.
The house was empty
when they came in with arms, with orders,
with evil intentions
prying into corners
scattering papers across the floor,
a gust of terror.
They went looking for crimes, concealed in envelopes;
words that let their echoes trail
as the gossamer of the stars.
They found crimes like this:
"the first year of the dream,
we are poets, therefore we love,
as a child I remember a courtyard,
on my elbows in the rainbow,
the violet ash,
or April that stood on tiptoe to brush your angel
And finally, they uncovered the consummate crime
the letter perfect crime:
under your name, which is "distance,"
your poems,
"the height of letters."
"
