The smell I’m sure comes from farther off than the seaweed dead grasses brought by the sea false twin of humidity and you in symmetry with the worm up there silencing the white holes you’d only have to lift your finger to invent the rain I’d put a lid on it and we would never speak of it again. But you drew the bolt when the eclipse came even the shutters stayed closed with four roses outside at the foot of the wall tomorrow I’ll cut three of them you told me and put them to dry on the grass the fourth is the rose of the winds someone has to keep the north when pieces of the compass are pecked by the highway’s devouring birds. Your finger raised toward the dark regions was it leaving to descend again with the very first rain was it going away to pierce the abscess so the sky would deflate unless it’s saying more prosaically since poetry is not afraid of paradox how hard it is to defend THE INTEREST OF ALL THE ROSES. (Translated from the...