In a city's song
there has to be
a phallic god and an ocean
of sperm, Efraín,
there's no way.
Swallows and flowers
have to die smashed
or faded.
And a wall, of course,
indispensably a wall
and a bone
and a man thin
as a thread,
and blood
and busted semen.
Did I leave something unnamed?
No matter.
Someone else will throw it up instead of me
with pus, blood clots and all of that.
A "poet" maybe,
who knows.
As for now, let me turn off the light
and let me dream
of hives
and the sweet honey of the flanks.
