This wander all cities you like
looking for a sign of yours:
a curl, a hair,
a slice of fabric in the windows,
a warm meduse as your soul
between your thighs and fears
a dying elephant.
This rented room in a shrine of Rome,
a sweet and constellated caress,
this go blank sweating around world:
highways, spiderswebs of light,
noiseless wagons
with steps that don’t carry to the heart.
This go moving elsewhere,
without filling,
eternal enmity that links me to the things.
This way of rocking cities like a stone
to ask, without an echo, to the horizon
where did it place the red ceiling of your mouth
or the oscillating viaduct of your fingers,
these parts of nothing that still call you,
this nothing on pieces that still names you
and doesn’t find you
and doesn’t find you
and doesn’t find you
and doesn’t find you
(ECHO)
Translated by Marisa Martínez Pérsico
EN 
MK