The Lovers

Who can notice them wandering through the city

if all of them are blind?

They hold hands: something speaks

between their fingers, sweet tongues

lick the sweaty palm, running through the phalanges,

and above, the night is full of eyes.

They are the lovers, their island floats adrift

toward deaths of grass, toward ports

opening under the sheets.

Everything comes undone through them,

everything finds its total swindled,

but they have no idea

for while tumbling in their sour sand

there is a pause in the task of nothingness,

the tiger is a garden at play.

The morning finds the garbage trucks,

the blind begin to exit,

the ministry opens its doors.

The lovers, fatigued gaze and touch each other

once more before smelling the day.

Dressed, they go out into the street

and only then

when dead, when dressed,

the city’s hypocrisy recovers them

imposing on them daily obligations.