From Fatigas tropicales

Tree, sprouts. Air, sprouts. Light, sprouts. I have pulled
a cluster from my left eye. I rise and eat from curdled fruits
that taste like Island. I fell the word Island and make a table
to organize my family and exercise the memory of my dead.
Flesh, live again. Let crows feed upon you
and regain their sight. Everything sprouts from a hermetic throat,
from a hermetic poem and from a soul no longer growing old.
Eternity, we aren’t talking about you. We aren’t talking!
Everything sprouts when ants breathe on wood, imitating us,
and birds dream of sky. Everything sprouts within
a current of silence where you swim at the bottom.
In a single life we accumulate another.
In a single agony we accumulate another.