White Weapons

 
He slices them through birds of prey, infinite air
along the jet streams to slash
across their backs,
of blood constructed,
and watch them soar, sullen as words,
enormous as poems,
metaphors of dream stirring sails,

Transient bodies.

He did not set off
with the flesh of women.

He studied the phenomenon on the gaze of dreams
when obsession burns and fights
the quiet submission.

Horns of bulls garnish the secrets
of these nocturnal birds.

Arena, anaphora.

He slices them through caverns
and catches each virgin in the mystery
of the water that streams from fountains,
illuminating the mouths of serpents.

Red is the moon of the inaugural night.
Someone will fall into his silence, of white scarves, of love poems.

Of destiny.