“My friend, / the flowers close themselves / against a world without you.” Zilleruelo paints a world where speech itself has the power to crack a moon, a world where the poet “float[s] behind the teeth of things.”

Cartography 

Light acquires wounds 
on its way through a window, 
emerges self-divorced from trials of geometry. 

Bootprints trail off the map: 
faded ink and rotten canvas, 
history lost to the worm’s thirst. 

Dead center of all cartography, 
the tongue acquires light, 
swollen hell of swallowed maps, 

fallen to luminous jewel, 
spiral storm of stars, 
temporary and terrible.