You can't write drunk.

Slowly my body grows a single sound, slowly I become a bell, an oval, disembodied vowel, I grow, an owl, an aureole, white fire poesia "Metamorfosi, I. Luna

Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.

The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.

The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.

We read, we travel, we become.

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.