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life poetry

con los ojos mansos, marrones
sé lo que usted va a decir
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
la noche es oscura, y los vientos del invierno
resido en la montaña de la tabla
rosas y oro
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
había un strangeness en sus labios
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
en la esfera

 



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