Gas Stations That Sell Condoms In The Washroom

A Ana Belén Cardinali, poet of silence
That took these verses:


know that your life is a broken object and invisible, has suffered this ruin


With all my admiration.

I have, sometimes I feel like
But above all, is some thing quietly insisting
Shutting the mouth.

If I told you that I can imagine themselves
As a myth, as he weighs his dragon fire.

sospecharte There is so much fog to back, forgetting for both
deserve you in looks
you miss even say your name to conjure up efforts. Something

fear, something I feel torn between the shadow cracking
But I know that is just my habit of smiling teeth dream you
To say that God is also shaking their sunrises and dreams.

But I think now.
Here I am at times I have you,
that sometimes I hold on to your nostalgia and your way of naming the floods
Or that strange habit of wonder, of setting a poem as if it were a match.

Both, I believe, grew up without knowing pain.
And I know that is not true, that childhood was fraught with kisses. But as lie

a body that pushes me every day looking for cliffs to hurl the secrets.

want you to know, you really find out.
That here I am with my debts as always:
With Enormous Wings do not know how I work
and hinder any desire to climb trees.

color is I am the light that plays at being a shadow in the arch of Cordoba,
night The color gives the stone in the old roundabout.

Do not be surprised, sometimes I say things that seem to meander,
But they are just puddles of blood traces that crush the rock. Something strange must

at night, so the sleeplessness
And that chain of verses that make us to chip absences.

We came into the world to offer up the heart
But there are things missing like the cyan in the seas
Do not know but foam and sunken galleons.

Another win will love shadows mortified by the sacred bones;
Here in my solitude, I confess, I learned to make flutes with the shadow of your own.

have repeated a few words, some gestures of blind
One way to walk to the bathroom or lighting a cigarette.

I imagine you, I try, but do not lurking in the corners achievement books,
not I get ideas of how in certain downs, you stroke your breasts stunned by cold. Only

I have a piece of your voice laughing, a little sigh of sleep
silencers and the magical way of appearing cats and verses.

poets who have cleaned the filter cake day
you print the value of following the planet,
What excited about anything.
But some things still, slide to hit the panic
And then a poem, a trope, anxiety like a log in the stream of tears.

unseal not worry about the invisible,
For pitchers suffer, or closer to the fire, your fingers asleep.

The suicide drop light, The eye of the fish
evaporates and creates clouds,
Every tear enter a destination, empty
Bodies or break:
sentenced him in a back that broke with your kisses.

There is nothing that does not vibrate with a certain note,
no soul you can not find his epitaph in the flowers.

But you and I know that this too is a lie,
You are just attempts to say otherwise, that something lives
evicted from within, taking us out
sparks, shipwrecked, nights unpunished.

Destruction is almost as a habit, meditate
A ritual where it is not safe
For an animal that howls insists soften the mirrors.

I fear I have the moon that I see: Behind
snow tattooed.

However, you, your rain, your swan in mourning,
A Cacimba of affection in my breast have been achieved.