Gacela of the Terrible Presence
I want the river to lose its way. I want the wind to quit the valley. I want the night to lose its sight, and my heart its flower of gold; the cattle to speak to the great leaves, and the worm to die of shadows; the teeth on the skull to shine, and the silk to be drowned in yellows. I can see wounded midnight's duel struggling, knotted, with noon light. I resist the broken arch, where time suffers, and the green venom of twilight. But do not make a black cactus, open in reeds, of your nakedness. Leave me afraid of dark planets, but do not show me your calm waist.