STANDARDS AND PARADISE OF THE BLACKS

They hate the bird's shadow
on the white cheek's high tide
and the conflict of light and wind
in the great cold hall of snow.

They hate the unbodied arrow,
the punctual handkerchief of farewell,
the needle that pressures redness
into their smiles as green as the grass.

They love the deserted blue,
the swaying bovine faces,
the deceitful moon of both poles,
and water's bent dance on the shoreline.

They use the science of tree trunk and rake
to cover the day with luminous nerves,
and as they skate, gliding over water and sand,
they taste the bitter freshness of their millenary spit.

It's in the crackling blue,
blue without a single worm or sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs stay forever
and the untouched rains dance and stroll.

It's in the blue that has no history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the naked body of the wind goes to break up
camels of empty clouds moving in their sleep.

It's there the torsos dream beneath the hungry grass,
there the coral absorbs the ink's desperation,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails,
and the emptied space of the dance stays above the last of the ashes.