THE IMMOBILE DANCE

Night messengers announce the unheard.
It was searched for beneath the howl of light.
There was resistance against the advance of the gloved hands
that strangled innocence.

And if they hid in the house of my blood,
how not to drag myself to my lover
who dies behind my tenderness?
Why don’t I flee
and chase myself with knives
babbling deliriously?

Every instant is woven from death.
I devour fury like a foolish angel
invaded by weeds
that disrupt the memory of the color of the sky.

But they and I both know
that the sky is the color of a dead childhood.