In August when the sky fills up with bulls
a vulture flies down to the neighborhood
and calls from the nearest telephone to say he’s coming to see me

admirable pyromaniac plagued by arson
black serenity on his feathers
arrives troubled by the prophecy of certain flames
cartesian vulture graduate of some rough schools
does not easily reconcile himself to my silences
but knows we bear the same sign under our eyelids
and discerns the same gold on our knees

we man and bird resting on two easy chairs
chat long and leisurely
while my lover with peaceful gestures reawakens
the quickening archetype of Night

Certainly I could tell him that I sank a shaft into the fog
and that the otter called my name again last night
I could show him the fourth sign of the mole and the lucid reply of the stinging nettles

but my spaces will likely seem to him an unknown island
that is why he leisurely stirs an ignited wing
and takes refuge in the strict geometry of restlessness

the two of us resting on two easy chairs chat long and leisurely
outside the night rusts my dogs