the ‘maters

orange ,under the drooping

,leaves ,dirtsprung hands

,or gold ,spheres ,es

caped my eyes ,to

fall in mud ,or the

cornea’s cloudy ,leaves

me standing ,and in my

churning sleep

an icy shoe returns

‘    ’    ’   ‘  ‘   ’   ‘

where the compost’s

crowned with flies

.my uttered wallet’s

nest my sandy keys

my knife crusted

with sticky see

ds  .))under the water’s

mile ,I slept

...las semillas que subían...

- Carlos Pellicer

exlumation

b oil nos tril ,g ,nat

es dri ppy ,off the

f loor ,s hoe f ills ,a

m ask o f og the

han ky rai sed ,a f

lag un foiled ,to

ward the st reaming

c aves ,of rain the

mater ,so’s yr fin

g ered sn akes yr g

rippless toes and linty

shirt ,damp ,ered

while the exhalation’s

in ,bur bling at the mou

th ,rem akes the soaking

air ,or light

Toda la mierda literaria ha

ido quedando atrás.

- Roberto Bolaño

 

río por fin

the shirt a wave ,my tumb

ling  .the corn disappears

so my eye “returns” .the

rubble the sandwich the

drizzle ,forgot ,“remembered”

the silt-white water  .river

,stumbling ,through my bou

ldered pants my leg my

le g ,ate and squealing

in the flood’s meatless

sleeves tunnels rushing

toward’s mouth ,at

last ,coughing

Entre estos árboles que he inventado

y que no son árboles

estoy yo.

- Roberto Bolaño

 

spackled and cloudy

bright shoe time

the gelid wing

gore ,flowering

dry books

heaving

lesioned hills

Blinked in Ivan Argüelles’

“is ,was”