old machine cold
nose in the shaggy garden
who never believed
in the human sky
moonlashed
insatiable planetarium
of debris
where memory accumulates
its fury
that blazed in time
with its maps smoking
its ashes
it is the hour
of shattered islands
inside a jar of geography
and the kiss sank
on the path
and the fruit
was full of thirst
because battles
imprisoned in the mouthes
obscured men and women
with the things they become
old machine
passed from one day to another
through the blue nights
twisted arms
luminous mane
from birth
that stone
sheparded from the depths
of dull labors
corn and blood
in the treacherous seedlings
gasping for air in the anxious clay
and the magnetized iron
knives chained together
for the whirling sunset
linked to each furrow
made by the uncountable breaths
old machine
its posture sleeping
like flint in a fire
plunging
its claws into its fur
