Ingred Zelada Sublimated Answers to Love You must no longer hope, fantasize, or make from appointments reality. Strong embrace, you need not loosen for me; under light of perpetual ownership we amount to a sky, baptized with inhibitions and divested of your love. God's eternity detains the clock locked in your body's excited smells, kept safe in the trunk of your movements' keepsakes. Written on with sweat, drawn by lovely fire, our testified angel moves east. Recurrence, you remain in me. You do not love me. Of fused hearts and of the appearance of light and perfection I invite you to write on my arms, tonight or whenever you want. The Angel Begins I know that lights outside announce survival is a city, that posts are moored to stop their bleeding. That mountain air scratches at your breath as it descends on roofs dispersed in the night. But you put your humid star language, your wet cat skill, and your embered body on my defenseless neck, soul, and body; desire of all my butterflies, lift your gaze. Little haunt that already my hands befall, eager skies give you their lips. Below they brandish leaves of sedentary fear, knives, while here you supplement my sores and explain with fresh affection your lowest kiss. Clear the way—perhaps clear all away! Here, in these spaces, we initiate the angel becoming its wings, invented so as not to deny themselves. You, in Order Shooting the works at night, sleepless; out of the imaginary style of the gates of your forelegs breathe judgments into the false life of a superior. A touch of rum or brandy in the rain that once was due above me, in case you wish to provoke it, may enter your ruinous wits. The delirious vehements, the communicable reasons, each of the partisan sentiments is unnecessarily absent. Petals of popcorn snatched in the privy— nonetheless I save this letter which observes your aroma. The universality of stars wherever the sun hits the garden patch is, to my inveterate eyes, only one dimension of your cautiousness. It is very important to mend your ways. By Way of the Trouble To flee the locus of annoyance, desolate and without sadness, as where what once I changed is now the world. Through the troubled one, the sea, where my ears listen for the melody's latitude and want is either sail or horizon; I ought to reach eternally for the compass; to be the poetry of conversion, the air breathing into the reasonable heart, in happiness, in from trouble, through me. Now, by the heat of its own scorn, the world has changed; its breath verses through individual lips, sweetheart and sweetheart, lost to one another. about Ingred Zelada