You will have bestial sex with the old man who lives in the extreme north / Gocho Versolari, poet

An old man lives in the extreme north
that when you pass
barefoot and in green dress,
looks at you long with his eyes:
two lambs escaping from the basins
that they follow you
and they follow you
along the swollen sidewalk
of shrubs, sycamores and wheat fields

You walk focused on the flowers,
in the ellipses of the birds of October,
in the aquatic dream of your bare feet
and you don’t notice the old man’s eyes
that run next to you and hide in the frond
they don’t stop looking at you,
and they take from your body
fine slices of yourself
they arrive delicately
to the man from the far north.
With them he will build your silhouette,
then will ask you to cook a lamb
in the old wood oven
that with its broken bellows
it covers the rooms with smoke.

Your double in the far north
will wear a flower apron,
will cook singing
and will have sex with the host
as the night enters your lonely belly
and dark flowers open behind the windows.

The next day
you will go back down the sidewalk;
the old man’s eyes will be a couple of birds
they will take strands of your hair
trying to conjure
the body heat of your double
the distant cold of December.

The old man from the far north waits
that at some afternoon
you get home with the real body
and the doubles will explode
and the old man’s eyes
will be a couple of grayish circles
who will have seen in the world,
the tragedy of every dawn
when the thin glow of the three o clock
carries on his thick and filthy back
the light of the first dawn.




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