Where the chameleon-weaver comes to fiddle with the phases of the moon… Scraping darkness off a mirror, pulling the threads of a dream from your mouth, clothing for a dance forced into déjà vu. It was deep into her eyes that drew the order and continuation of desirable proportions, extracting, polishing… spirit-bone tapping for a spark-rendering pose. The art of lunacy.

*

Tales of the blind équilibriste, a zebra pose and pickpocket. Touching stone in the morning, for light and liquid, pulling fragments into a random line of defense. Throwing pollen, smear to enlighten a face, shatter a template. You insist on desire as a means of stealth, reversing every entrance… there are shadows in the fire for unconditional rite of passage.

*

Spinning mercury over dream pools (hers, the compass face…) no one knew such unions fired up those wretched cyphers, glowing birds. A handful of ladders like splendid gowns raising cane. In a field burning language, the ratcheting membrane of your waterfall, tapping for an endless stature of hummingbird lips…

*

Those traumas filled with gold, and the secret glow. Unnatural selections with desperate maneuvers and harsh evasions, you persist, unrelenting, to foreshadow the thrill of chameleons. You might never have known, but for that mad tinkering in the garden… Drawing visions out of blood, for the sorrows of La Llarona.

Dark gravitational assignations seduced into amulets the color of glass, evolving in sequential chiaroscuro, tempting blood where (in the Manor of Sighs) the barbarian sign language seizes the images of your being in the rich, antiquarian lucidity of your extinction. Your face, or the features of night in the fever of graceful spirits that still come to drink the liquid of life out of your hands, the pendulum… An evening of theater runs ahead…

*

Trapping belladonna between the lines, between her legs, between phases, to embrace the blindness of your murmuring, pushing out between her lips, the lost hermeticism of albino checkmates.

*

The weapon you most cherished was feminine. The wedge forced into the appearance of things was ambiguous with its dark insistence and wind‐up astronomy, clicking and whirring about in circles and broken up by triangles into long, interminable caresses that went on forever, imitating a newly discovered galaxy quivering in the nearness of wolves.

*

There is only the daughter of Icarus, without mirrors, the shadow of uncertainty that surrounds the ribcage of a philosophical paradox, only the stone of a primitive light, only the glance that hatches in the fire, the optical mainspring of a science that runs amok, only the ciphers leading the fossils of daybreak, and the glowing of those beings you feed each morning, the pools of blood dripping out of your dreams. Flight is only the body torn by light, powered by obscene gestures. A choreography of wish fulfillment.

There is always the diamond-cutter’s unremitting caress, always those great moths entering your eyes in a frenzy of unconditional attraction, clearing a space for the ermine of humor, and the misplaced objects of great value.