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funny poem

él incluso tendría su broma
oscilado en la horquilla del profundo
ámeme en el último, o si usted no
hasta su ventana del compartimiento
arqueó la inundación
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
no me quemo ningún incienso
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
tormenta
el aire es como una mariposa
apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
el misterio más oscuro, más extraño
resido en la montaña de la tabla

 



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