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.



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