XI

They are suspicious of us. The first bus
has passed, and it surprises us
at the scene of the crime,
necks and hands untied,
at the point of death, giving in.

The light calls us to a halt,
we feel its revolver at our backs,
too indecisive,
its tremble in us, covert
under the small forest of the sheets.

Run!
Grab your love and run inside your body!
There is a lawless canyon in our lips,
a labyrinth whose exits are burning.
Look at your heart or your waist,
that castle overhead
that my thighs crown like a lake of fog.

Run!
It heeds only the wind of our skin,
passing and returning.
And may the blasts sound,
may the gunshots sound,
may the sirens sound at your back.