In the window

In the window

Naked as the sun skull,

I blow murmurs to the clouds,

impregnate the pale neck of light

with my groping hands,

and swallow the agony

of the tired images 

in the puddles.

The rain stops.

Immersed in the howl

and the gratitude of eyes

I discover my Aunt's favorite

collection of poems.

A cigarette walks across 

the moon's dark ear. 

An Old-World sparrow pecks 

a hole in the metaphors 

while I write for the afternoon 

make-believe wages.