THE MINOTAUR
in a Picasso sketch
Into the bed the Minotaur comes, sniffing
your body, your body hair,
that glows in heat,
and gives off
the aroma of aniseed.
Your face is ripe
like a grain of wheat
in the final field.
And the growl that makes the curtain shiver
lures you: you sway your breasts
towards the eerie and acid smells,
when desire sticks out its tongue,
its red tongue,
onto lust
that moistens.
And then, awakens. And Death
sits in the arena where the bull
scuffs his feet
and seconds seem to pour like rust from the sun,
in the plaza where fate pulls the trigger
in the waning light of Saturday evening.
Soon the room becomes bright.
And the Minotaur vanishes from the bed.
The hour seeps into the ground.
Only Death slips
from the thrill
passing
though your navel
your loins—
the imperishables.