the leaves of a tree inside my house, the le ing loose of sorrowful cows, yellow furniture in my heart.
Empty, holy, I am the cave, an exit mouth for the dead.
72 leopoldocastilla
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him unburied in the bu erfl y parting its own form.
Sense him deaf inside a ragged wing, the world’s lightness roaming like a fi sh, lost in a mirror’s light venting endless clothes of the dead.
You will know he lived because the day arrives without presence.
Where is his place? Itchiness of light, the moon sick inside bedrooms, a wasteland, unrecorded, escaping?
I am soaked by bright, senile rains. They hang with contradiction, prenatal breezes,
leopoldo castilla 71
the leaves of a tree inside my house, the le ing loose of sorrowful cows, yellow furniture in my heart.
Empty, holy, I am the cave, an exit mouth for the dead.
72 leopoldocastilla
