skin burnt by the wind
eyes staring at the grave
streams of blood
wraiths under leaves

remembrance strips crucified in every eye
hang on sharp blades of grass
on flaked benches
on shadows running chaotically
towards each sun drop

***

the angels – seven of them –
were elevating the pyramid into the pupil

the Meta archangel
was throning
the years
on the middle of the earth

***

my wound unlocked by night
like a shell awash with algae and tears
of time

through impulses –
the grass smolders

painters with infinite beards...
a Havana kept between the teeth
by the treacherous smile

catch the flight of the angel-man
from the top of the church

snapshot scratched with a quill