To my grandfather,
after Hurricane Mathew.
A house in the archives
to inhabit with all the papers,
bacteria, books, and my body’s allergies.
A wasteland man who inhabits the place
renamed babel, without bulks or agglomerations,
without clattering, under the repugnant heat
of a difficult procedure, and with the voice of one who lets loose
to ride the blood of a wound.
The insurmountable stationery advances to repair
the absent family that sets aside the curvature or ruin
that not even romantic writers would like to refer to.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
