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marriage poem

un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
simplemente hablando
era no para ese olor singular
para poder ver cada lado de cada pregunta
levantado de los muertos
el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
cortocircuito y dulce, y hemos venido al extremo de él
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
su pelo hermoso
para venir tan pronto a esto imaginaba obscuridad
todavía trece años
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas

 



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