wave and smoke

it is no time at all ,but

pulgas ,hit's today ,en

sus opacos retumbos ,to

wake the invisible ,if ex

posed in shorts' secreted

hour ,de un betún azul ,the

missing organs the long

cured skeleton in your

leg ,collaged the bones ,que

parecían borrados ,unless

it's ending ,the futurists cur

ved ,ecstatic ,yet not again

,la mano después de la lluvia

always nebulous ,if coming

home ,or dishes' alienation

,casi en las sombras' book

detexted ,corrugado ,sucked

out in tidal space ,debinding

,en la repantigada oscuridad

the lithiform dead ,what

oil has ,until the flood

,stinking in a dockyard wh

ere the feet afloat ,como el

baile se congeló ,durational

in fact if not ,the chalky

endings ,inmovilizados en el

gesto de hormigas, or ex

hausted suit letters ,para

fijar la perspectiva in the

fading eye ,or nostril ,over

the hands ,when the watch

lights up

A 4 voces: John M. Bennett, Jim Leftwuch (Six

Months Aint No Sentence, Book 100, 2015),

Ivan Argüelles (“omega”, 2015), and José

Lezama Lima (Paradiso, 1966).