Monday, June 28, 2010

Ernesto Trejo

Your room would only be complete
with music and a tired cat,

a phone pleading
and no hand to lift it.

From the window, a sidewalk
lined with willows would stretch on.

On the wall, a map of the city
would peek from behind your back.

Under the table,
a pair of battered boots, your size.

You will hear sycamore leaves
breaking like glass.

Your wrists will join like palms,
like the murmur crossing your life.

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