Words with patina
in the shade of the liver or this poem.
A worm has bored holes in memory.
Hands of rue harvest at the cluster or the infinite,
If you open a box or Alpine colors, and
you sniff deeply,
you’ll smell the aroma or infancy.

Antoni Gost. March, 1998

Epilogue.

When the music stores the cello
in its black sarcophagus
the cadaver or God smells or rosin.

Angel González
“Lesson or things and other poems”

Sea-Grown

In the deepest or nightfall over the island.
White Odors with pages or Sand
wrapping the Salt which with time
will change into Memory and Sea.

Tòfol Sastre. March, 1989