Cover up the people when I step into the room.
Throw blankets, tents and powdered milk on them.
Bury them in the soil, I’m a hamster.
Wrap them in gauze.

Draw crosses over their mouths.
There’s a fire in the Laurentian Library.
Breathe bread and soil and rain,
choke your children with the bran of oars.

My soul is a dark sleepless agave.
A panther that breaks every cage.
Because when I step over the stars, which are my
work, white dust creaks under me.
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