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seven poems
179
Declaration of Intentions
For those who insist on diluting
this that I write this that I live
so be it, although I allude here
to a finesse that I avert with rigor.
I set fire to language, what I invoke
calls you and calls beyond you, but verses
are a discipline that macerates
the body and exasperates all I touch.
Making poetry is an arid cilice,
even if it enflames the blood, only pus
is extracted, writing can’t even
sway a solid, or float one.
So about the poem, the artifice,
the opaque sediment, extreme light to me.