Float Bowl Metal Phbh Phbl Dellorto Only death

There are lone cemeteries, graves full of bones
without sound
the heart through a tunnel
dark, dark, dark,
in a shipwreck we die
as we drown in the heart,
as we go falling from the skin of the soul.




There are corpses, feet
is cold and sticky clay, death is
bones,
as pure sound,
as a barking dog,
out of certain campaigns, certain graves,
growing in damp air like tears or rain.



I see, alone, veces,

coffins under sail sail with the pale dead, dead women in braids,
with bakers white as angels,
thoughtful girls married to notaries, caskets sailing up the river
vertical of the dead, the river
purple
up, with sails filled by the sound of death,
swollen by the silent sound of death.



drawn to sound the death
like a shoe without a foot, like a suit without a man,
comes to knock with a stone ring, and fingerless
comes and shouts with no mouth, no tongue , no throat.

However

his footsteps sound and dress sounds, silent as a tree.

I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly see
but I think his singing has the color of damp violets, of violets
accustomed to the earth,
because the face of death is green, and
gaze of death is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.



But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor looking
dead;
death is in the broom, in the language
ldeath looking for corpses,
is the needle of death looking for thread.



Death is in the cots:
on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets lying
lives, and suddenly breathes out:
blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and there
beds
sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.