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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