SEPARATED

I separated myself from each truth about the beginnings

of rivers, trees, and cities.

I have a name that will be a street of goodbyes

and a heart that appears on X-ray films.

I separated myself even from you, mother of all skies

and carefree houses.

Now my blood is a refugee that belongs

to several souls and open wounds.

My god lives in the phosphorous of a match,

in the ashes holding the shape of the firewood.

I don't need a map of the world when I fall asleep.

Now the shadow of a stalk of wheat covers my hope,

and my word is as valuable

as an old family watch that doesn't keep time.

I separated from myself, to arrive at your skin

smelling of honey and wind, at your name

signifying restlessness that calms me down,

opening the doors to the cities in which I sleep,

but don't live.

I separated myself from the air, the water, the fire.

The earth I was made from

is built into my home.