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christmas poetry

el viejo oeste, el viejo tiempo
le cuento con
el aire es lleno de amanecer y de resorte
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades
mi madre me enseńó que cada noche
materia de la luna
una pluma del acero
aquí cae ninguna luz
su pelo hermoso
era un oysterman joven alto
como él de quién alcohol en el resplandor del mediodía
quizás
musing, entre la puesta del sol y la obscuridad
camino abajo de las trayectorias del jardín

 



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