Cesar Vallejo

A whole civilization walks
by Cesar Vallejo sleeping
in a Parisian gutter.
His stomach resonates,
the canyon of his word,
speaking something
he can't transcribe.

His mouth has forgotten
the taste of words..
His tongue hunts
the craters of his
teeth, the squelched
ribs of the roof,
dehydrated apple skin
of gums, which
have given all
of their blood.

"That's Vallejo,
the great poet.
He subsists on
words. He must be
given pain
so he can make it
into poems."

His pen is out
of ink. His mind
aches for something
that cannot be
given through words.

The flying wings
of Spanish grasshoppers
are singing their
ride towards
this moment.

"Cesar, just one
more poem!"

The throne of the gutter,
he renounces it.