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friend poetry

ésos en el superior dicen que le conocen, tierra -- son mentirosos
qué yo le deben
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
soplador de vidrio del tiempo
en el puerto de York nueva
fuera de la ventana un mar de árboles verdes
las naves están mintiendo en la bahía
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate

 



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