Brotan del suelo,
a paletadas,
huesitos calcinados.
Père-Lachaise,
una rosa llora
al Rey Lagarto.
Cuidándome
de vampiras
y súcubos…
Bajo el claro de luna,
junto a las lápidas,
un blusero toca
la guitarra.
Trepa…
con tus ocho patas
y el drama a cuestas…
mientras sufro.
Aokigahara:
el tenue vaivén
de un dogal.
«México no es un país,
es una fosa», reza, en
tinta roja, la manta.
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