The landscape of your nakedness / Gocho Versolari, poet

At dawn
you tip over my sex:
load of apples,
swarm of invisible insects
that sift my blood,
and they raise my instincts.
At dawn
we fly to shoves
on the burning plains of hell.
A child is resurrected.
A barefoot girl
goes through our flames ,
our burning frost
while I take your hair
to see orgasm
carve in your face that ancient language
loaded with birds and cravings.
You will walk naked
over the fold of hell
while brand new skies
they design new births,
smooth sunsets
and sun horses.
The dream visits us:
round and smooth beast
that dumps liquid suns
in the sinuous domes of your skin.




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