At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech andthe vertigo of death; the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbenain submarine gardens; the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments; the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page; the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses, for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert; the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipa-tion of the self; the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors; the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, andthe garden of Netzahualcoyotl; the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in thecave of thought; the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands; the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language; the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love inlove.
Syllables seeds. From
OL
RO (A Tree Within)1976-1987
