In the table runner
wells in the air are opened.
The breeze of November
is full of black holes
and my heart devours
gallons of sweat in the cornices.

In the table runner
the moon takes the appearance
of the barefoot girl
that walks in the grass
seeking the nectar of the land,
with the soles of its feet.

My stomach murmurs elegies
in this night that is initiated
soft and noisy
as a young lover
as a furtive boy,
as a bird
that was thrown of the branch
seeking the heart of the worms,
seeking the tailoring
of the eggs of the toad.
For moments
the sky is an enormous well
from which take their forms
the infinite holes that are opened
in the soft marrow of the space.

The night advances
and I agonize sweetly
among the blankets.

Gocho Bersolari