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thanksgiving poetry

soplador de vidrio del tiempo
a lo largo de los bancos
escuche el mar del sonido
disparando para arriba, cayendo abajo
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
entre las montañas vagué
me pregunto a veces si es realmente verdad
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
sobre los tejados compita con las sombras de nubes
aflíjase no para el invisible
todos dentro y todos sin mí
cómo como las estrellas es este el blanco, las caras sin nombre
porqué tan es triste mi encantador?

 



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