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Cortejo y Epinicio


 With sealed eyes, vesperal,
in front of the gleaming candelabra
of saturday, my mother. The half-shadow
flatters its strings. Wanes

 the hour between the lit candles.
The dead shake themselves – fever: troops, 
exultant, pitiless, pilgrimage,
as candelabra, in mirrors. Since friday,

 avaricious, the agony. In the panes,
stunned by the clangor, the sun,
phylactery of goodbye, believes it is dreaming.

 The house is a sob. The horizon
cuts across the house: face of dusk
gone between the never and the never.