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.