Wednesday, May 18, 2016


Ramona, come closer
Shut softly your watery eyes
The pangs of your sadness
Will pass as your senses will rise
Bob Dylan, To Ramona

When night ashes spill
on your pupils,
the same as in a defenseless city,
knotting your silence,
you don’t tell me anything.
Moss also grows on my lips.
We contemplate each other
as if our bodies didn’t exist.

I come to your room
with a confusion of mouth
and a capsizing of manhood.
I bring my daily offering,
a mound of absence
cast in copper memories.

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