for Daniel; after Pablo
It was five o’clock when paper handkerchiefs descended
over the ocean’s surge—
one ocean varnished by oil in the morning, fish under the surge’s blades.
My country, you whimpered under fog. I awoke to the tender
sound of seashells on the radio.
I knelt by myself and listened. Your flat skeleton, large skeleton,
would group at your back.
Come, you murmured over canned goods. Come. I will tell you
clay seeps onto roots, roots drawn by salt, roots crowned
by trees. The cords unravel from the flesh of trees, unravel
by the storm shutters. Come.
See the roads brim with red poppy, roads tracked
by green serpents
((a la víbora, víbora / de la mar, de la mar))
I tendered nine eggs before the ignorant lion
of exile, who nodded.
At five in the morning, everything seemed to be made of lime—
one torso shrouded by magnolia, one torso under vulgar peal
of grey morgues, and the fish.