1
One cloud in heaven still
The cluttering
One day’s worth
Confuses us
When it taken
Shapes the working hand
And breaks us apart
I says nothing worries me
To greet in glowing glory
Like it must be glorified
To let us breathe
In the days of our cause
And so it goes one time
To age
For something we know nothing of
But flowers sing better than us
And at one pace we seek
The paradise of water milk and honey
2
I breathe one day and shake no more
To grief one is discovered
And silently I beat the measure for confessions
To break our eyes into the molded sky
I should escape yet I know nowhere
To space in raided spaces colored
Because the parting missions
Of our judicial stains can coldly travel
Wherein we have confessed enough
To say I do I must love you roughly in clutters
Perhaps to radishes in the cold front
But one cannot know if the boiling dawn
Is sawing or offending
3
Furiously the precise mortal ideals
Confuse us with the departed shadows
Of some other bodies which have fluidly
Convinced of our mistakes for what they are
And that is enough for me to say
That the panic of the cities covers a God
In the city of the mind whereby he silences
The misty vision of his children because he can
No one wants to hear him so predominant
And the blind sun is confused at this today
Bravely attuned by the mythical conversion
Of a hundred rivers floating upwards and below
4
The birds of clusters breed not in rocky lakes
The broken myriad of sea winds shuffles the breath
And we stare more
To whatever cause must be confused
With withering arms forces flowers
And thriving the violence of seawinds
Undresses the simple cities of a thrashing earth
Weakly and of silver the ill-gotten woods burn
This promise swearing is terrible in beauty more to list
Yesteryears and nothing crumbles
Playing with the towers of passionless floating druids
Whilst the hills of highland Spain
Can bid not one day farewell to breathe under stupefaction
Gold inside a sandy jug wickedly ringing
And wees pass us by wherein eternity holds the hand
Of a thousand lost departing claws drugged by the shouldering hills
Is this it? Are you eternity?
Rediscovered there is no breaking point
The swearing motion inspires the womb sensually supreme
To speak when the heart cannot fathom the steam
Of the grass at the base of an imperfect undying body of us
I’m a surrealist and I know nothing of myself only that I dreamt that my name is Jairo Dealba and that I was born in Spain and moved to Utah at fifteen and the rest is all about blurry…I love to read the classics surrealism and painting weird things.
The Literary Forest Poetry Magazine 