So deeply buried in blood,
A meridian's move is lone.

In the letter a lump of earth,
The holy light and windy gale,
The loops and nodes and scraped skin,
And the heart as a speck,
Upon the perfect image's imprint.

Why do angels fall?
It could barely float,
Kept away from the sky,
In the gold of a no man's rose,
In the cypress' shadow,
In the half-hearted sweetness.
Once. -When?
Like a picture,
Like a trip to Death itself.
-Where? And when would it go,
Its soul shrunk by terror,
With a hand of pity, a shiver of a beg,
Askew, inbetween, o'er here, o'er that way,
Its trace would be aslant, disturbing,
As a crate or box in daylight;
On the outside light,
On the inside dark.

They would recognize each other,
A burning bush of darkness and a moment of no will,
In the circles spreading through the dead and through the living.

Why do angels fall?
Steps in my head almost saying:
Perhaps it lay in a cradle. A child!
As airy as a bird's wing.
In the night it was rocked,
And its cry was torture,
Long and complex,
Like strands that dare not intertwine.
The heavy strands of sleep,
Which separate and part ways,
Whose ends are too short to merge,
Which roll along the breaking sound,
All through and to the edge,
As if pulled by a fiddlestick.

Along with the plants it grows.
But where? â€"It would venture uncheckable.
Pain reigns the forest paths
As a summer's circle ends,
A movement sunk into conflict,
In the straining of an arch,
In the transcendental blade.

The world being split into more than two parts.
I dare not knock, for who would open the door?
The cow, the butcher, or the hatchet?
Into the eyes of a ploughland color,
Death grew its roots.
It sat there in the dark,
Summoning a faint,
Telling of disintegration,
Of the movement that makes one stop,
Of the waves that churn in reverse,
Of the mystery knock of stellar clocks.
The milk from a breast was their lone food,
Their royal sign that moved celestial bliss.
It came down into one room's Void,
Into a lone place of piety.

Why do angels fall?
And the fingers that threaten landscapes,
As a sacrificial athame it draws the frames of entryways.

The sea slipped into a bucket of memories,
Empowered by the tides of fear within a nurse's breast.
Prints on a scribbled canvas,
The shadows of narrowed possibilities.

Distilled through a handful of sand â€" a morning's uncertainty.
The mute, wild parentage eludes the rosy scent.
Over the black and white faces of saints,
Golden leaflets in the pronged clock's strut,
Layer by layer, they peel along the line of life,
Onto hands as soft as plumes,
Rotting and useless objects.

The stray light draws upon the walls
Congested paintings, inverted creativity.
On my eyelids,
The paralyzing quasi-presence
Buries the muscles into sidespace,
Into the transcendental observation,
Into the dictionary of the netherworld,
Into the trigonometrical point of no conscience.

Evolution counts the fantasies of the many,
In a deeper dream,
In a labyrinth of streets.
It disappears out of sight until a sharp surge of pain.
-An angel? Yet another one!

On the silver, dark-gray shoals,
An abstruse photograph of mist.
A glass of chilled juice
Next to a scalpel
On the autopsy desk.
Where be the angel? Yet another one!

A fluxed mouth in the clay,
They deny the world in an outburst of grief,
Gaping and crucified,
In a shining geometry,
Read from the stars,
Mysterious and impalpable,
An enigmatic handwriting of genes.

There is only one body,
Only one being,
And when it scars the weed
Into a breakup beyond repair,
When it freezes into crystal.

Heartbeats,
Tearing each other apart
In the garden of Grace,
They take the form od dromedaries
Under a cloud of sand,
With muddy wounds
They halt time
And watch it go by.

A night spent awake is just a grand illusion.
In the never-ending perception
Surreal and self-repeating
It populates space with eternal fear,
Puts everything in brackets,
In a merry-go-round of rising complexity,
And freedom is a web of sewers
It reeks with adventure
As if growing from someone's shadow,
From a well-known character's reflection.

Why do angels fall?
Misunderstood as a punch of goodbye.
Like mutual draining of power.
Like unmasking of the devious.

The unlucky consciousness wounds me with doubts,
With an irony of comfy mood,
A mutating vector of reality,
With necessity and the structure of a utopia.

Why do angels fall?
Its action is a frail line to oblivion,
Covered in fine plumes.
Follow me!
With ever-present imaginary wings,
And in all directions.

They could meet me, open the curtains,
When the smell of hay hits you hard,
When the cavalry of a pupil grabs my attention and
In the dark corridors, the dead's remains of mineral.

The skating ground is safe,
The mystic weight of a phantasm,
In the ever-present dust it's modelled,
With the lust of yesterday's sundown.

The eyes cease being the sense of sight,
And the soul is a multitude of impaled nerves,
An artificially lit chamber,
The sensing of death.

Under the tempest of northern light,
In the unhappily changed relationships,
I wrap myself in glaring white linen.
In the soft fiber
Pain is a misunderstood accident.

Memoirs are rows of writing,
The four seasons of the year
In a frozen sequence.
Snowflakes on the naked breast.

My numb legs
Striped alongside
The celestial sky.

Why do angels fall?
The childness dedicated with amazement,
It rolls off like a rock.
And another one! Why do angels fall?
The horizon is blinking.

A reflection exists even when you look away.
In what? And when you move.
The character oppositio
Of the light in a sandstorm.

In the choral voices
Shimmering
Down the released wind:
Say it!
Who called for you?

I do not want to meet you,
Or to touch with fingers of woe.
The pain is loud and senseless.
The echo stings, blackened.
Thorns and dry splinters and crystals.

Why do angels fall?
The all-seeing secret and defense of meaning.
And everything seems to fall from a tree
And is neither fruit nor leaf nor dry stick:
Silence of the dead birds.
Sound carved in gold.

I don't count things not given to me,
And when I turn,
No feathers cuddled,
Gathered for the pillow of its dream.

I am that I am.
I am for no reason.
Confused bymy dreamy gaze,
They move away, mirroring blur,
Framed by a slow pace,
Unhappy for the word that doesn't touch them
In-between many futile sighs.

The imprint is non-existant,
Down the sand dunes,
When it moves, whipping its tail around,
Followed by a cloud of flies,
A dromedary uncharmed by phantasms,
Lead by thirst,
By the eastern beams of light,
By divine manifestations,
The music of everyday life.

Why do angels fall?
A storm blowing to a lighthouse's left,
And one can hear a rattle, tiny, sharp,
A bang of metal, as if made by knife,
On the autopsy table.
And thus and angel falls. And another, and another.