the tool comes to us,
and the cup,
the notable curve
of a hip that clings to
the whole of a woman and prints itself there!
Hands shaping
the cup to its contour,
showing the way to the barrel's rotundity,
the lunar outline of the bell.
I need big hands
to help me
change the profile of planets;
the traveler requires
triangular stars;
constellations like dice
cut into squares by the cold;
hands that distill
hidden rivers in Antofagasta
and restore to the water
what its avarice lost in the desert.
I want all the hands of the world
to knead mountains
of bread, gather
all fish in the sea,
all the fruit
of the olive,
all the love still unawakened,
and leave
gifts
in the hands
of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment