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thanksgiving poetry

mi alma es un campo arado oscuro
el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
cuál era él los motores dichos
no permanezca no más
tan perdido
mi madre me enseñó que cada noche
quién nombrará el viento
oscilado en la horquilla del profundo
asustado no más, digo
poco parque que paso a través
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
éstos sean
amo las viejas endechas melodious
no sea falso

 



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