He who made me took me away from plenty;

forty days he’d been tormenting me in the desert.

The politician died, poor guy.

He wanted to become president and didn’t.

My father wanted to eat.

My mother wanted to wander.

I’m in favor of the revolution but first I want a rhythm.

Dear God, my son asks for my blessing—I give it.

I, who am bad.

Why not even wasp’s honey for me?

I, who said in the tow square (exposing myself)

“Let’s dance, you ragamuffins, follow the beat,

the Kingdom is implicit but real”—

I don’t know where to go with this:

“The steeples are most eternal at two in the afternoon.”

I see the mango tree against the black cloud,

my heart warms,

once more I delude myself that I will make the poem.

Everything she learned on the street

the converted tart does for mystical ecstasy:

so what if the seamstress comes to the door

sucking her cavity?

I still think she’s pretty.

Some things that tempt me: physical beauty,

the precise configuration of lips,

sex, the telephone, letters,

the bitter shape of the mouth in Ecce Homo.

Dear God of Bilac, Abraham and Jacob,

will this cruel hour not pass?

Pluck me from this sand, oh Spirit,

redeem these words from dust.

In this tropical country a hard winter rages.

I’m wearing socks, a jacket and distress.