Carnassial fists stained by a cracked sky

torch amidst the ancestral boles

eye without shores without memory

god and one that your blue fumes do not importune

by death and feasting

with in his nostrils unhoped for flowers

with on his back the youthful flight of the curlew birds of phosphorescence

and a perfidious chance alive

in the indestructible ruins of his silence




Co-translated by Clayton Eshleman and A. James Arnold


from Solar Throat Slashed (Wesleyan Press, 2011)

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