Ernesto Trejo

2 a.m. by Ernesto Trejo •

Under the covers, the winds of sleep
rock the poppies of your breasts
We close our eyes to this life
and open them to the other Next to the eager
ness of the fly, the wrath
of a flock of sparrows
and the saintliness of the horse
you fall off the precipice of the day's bridge
The teeth of winter
also sleep for a while
Under the bed, my shoes too rest
their burning eyes
At 2 A. M. God comes out to stretch his legs
and lights the cigarette of a whore
that struts in front of the drugstore
The plank of solitude
that spawns fraternities
—snake and hare, owl and mouse—
is dispelled when I exist in your dream
alongside with whom I was and will be
The night is a knife of diving dust
You arch a shoulder and office buildings collapse
when your knees point skyward
there's thunder in a desert
If you were to open your eyes now
you could mangle a continent