Ballad for the Morning Organs

From the book Ballads and Self-Portraits

Translated by Amanda Castro

I mount in cold blood my morning organs, the light

Recently furious of my guts, the poppies of

Death and the telephones, instruments of pain that

Dictate their cold stab

Without wanting walking down the roads are my systoles

Salty, the sweet gallop of my hypothalamus and the rage of

the empire of my duodenal ulcers

Aruspice stands here on my

Countless gray humeri to contemplate my organs

Oozing in the morning