frio no poema de nevar

faz frio dentro. escrevo nas paredes e no teto, quanto arrefece a lua decrescendo para Nada esta noite. daí surge a paixão que arde na madeira da porta onde trememos tanto para abrir e entrar. esqueço a catástrofe do medo de cair Só, diante de Só, fora de pai e mãe, na inteligência do fogo, transcendendo as cinzas do corpo amado em ruínas. existo, dobrada na ideia de Infinito, na curva do seio onde bebo outro leite mais materno do que a primeira angústia de Perder a Nudez da última camada de pele. Assim trabalha o frio de uma carência que nenhuma presença há capaz de me... Compreendes, Carinho? Abraça-me e não me morras hoje.

non-nothing

it happens the depth of forgetting why the Origin is a shade of red and yellow very sharp, cutting flesh within. to be and to become that taste of shade persisting into question. uncertain mixture of liquids and dense nothingness freezing the word that denies my last effort approaching the mouth.
because I must fly till the explosion of wings. non-nothing begins yielding passage and genesis. you may unveil the fear of touching flames, nascent flames of Why and How the alteration of substance hurts...

birds of passage

birds of passage are we here. absolutely newcomers to this mother tongue of skin boiling. birds of passage here we are. the same bird as absolute nothing and non-nothing, perhaps off coast, always nearing the extreme secrecy without knowing more than skin boiling towards more temperature so much before nothing and non-nothing absolutely. birds of passage are we here desiring every instant of One and None, always tongue boiling of silence as if the primal foam of Cosmos in here, my mouth inventing your passage from skin to skin. per chance, mastering the flow of one tear and a half. as if birds bleed beyond being this substance still to sing overnight in here. our wings have feathers of so far a spring. No Name names It, my moon imploding, if you stay overnight in this river or wind where we are of passage, just birds, the same bird of skin or fresh dust of skin, trembling as if the Necessity, the urgency strikes furiously against all Desire off lips. uneasy flight, uneasy perching are we of birds, passage.   
whether you cry or sing, you alone are Never and Ever the passage of birds  heading so much from skin to skin fully collapsing into non-nothing: a beam of light weaving blood to vein. Love is this labor.