WHAT THE GAZE CAN DO Poem by Henry Luque

We have gone into the shop to see the sick light.
The human irons fill the intimate cupboards
and I have lost my soul, my balance,
amid a darkness of ten and seven years.

Slowly I have lost my mask
while you shrouded me with a kiss.
Your navel was the valley crowned by a sunset.
This was not our world nor was this the blindness
that rubs us out like eternity in a country of smiles.
Look: caves that keep in celestial coffins
the chained phantom of the spinal cord.

Here only condoms are cheap, the fragrance of the screw,
the tunnel adorned with its habitual blood.
Glitter devoid of desire where you notice
the trees of calamity, the throbbing of a gaze
that leaf after leaf spills over the futile counters.

When heads no longer have a single drop of fever,
and a humanized heaven does away with dungeons,
the condor with golden teeth will apologize.
Like rain at the entrance of the cinemas,
dreams will riot, clearness will spring up again.