dilluns, 25 de gener de 2016



Sitting on the clothesline,
among my washed skirts
I have sung with your voice ...
digress from ashes, rain, sex,
and our tracks
lost in Japan,
my dark circles ... that you read
and others not,
Salmon that show through top,
a sock falls flat
It prowls made Gran Vía
burned by the sun,
I think bubbles
follow me where I walk,
scattered through the heavens,
and verses where I burn ...
then think Junzaburu
walking among cherry trees,
and I never get tired of being game,
take pictures of your wings
Cam made of fingers.

-© Carmina Ral 2016

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