The mysterious
strategist,
she who lets the seasons
pass
and piles up
matches
because in her territory
it's always winter.

Night
takes off
her strangler's
stockings
and a force
alien
to my will
keeps me
from moving.
They are everywhere.
The gravediggers
of dreams.

I got my copy of Lola Velasco's El sueño de las piedras yesterday.

She who rests
above a landscape
of skeletons,
and wonders
how it is possible
that the universe (still) exists.



***

I checked out The Rova Improvisations from the public library. I don't own this book, for some reason.

"The music is a physical world / the sensing organ must reach into / synaesthesiac exchange of senses."