La hora de las moscas

The skin neighs, pregnant with spurs
because its saddle is only saliva that populates cheeks
melting lead, killing moths
it's the sob of a little one with thirst
groan that stirs the embers of the fireplace
tint of fight, biting kiss
it's the eave that wants to rain
it's east wind and north wind and at the hour of the flies..
chirping,
crown of thorns to eat from
it's a blouse with a knot on the chest,
it's a long stretch and disappear,
it's a hug of knives bleeding roses
a bed of straw and glass
it's an October breeze knocking down walls,
the udder where I sleep and that wants
the sick petal that sings when coughing

they tried to brand it and closed the scissors
it wasn't set in stone, the tip of spreading the
wounds remained.
the lost hours served as canvas,
it's the whim of the eye that sees
how it dies alone through the same peephole
of the same door that wants to break,
it's a hand trying to grasp
some piece of love and the heels on the nape of
life,
rotten apple, Abel's jaw,
entertaining itself unbuttoning the day's lights
to see you clearly.