Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Ernesto Trejo

At my window, I write:
Three children in the swings
testing how high they can go,
how much the chains will hold.
I imagine this April air
humming in their throats,
the trees behind them
disappearing like ice.
Off to one side
a younger kid awaits his turn
and pats the ground while his mouth
opens in a cry or a yawn.
Today I feel like that kid.
Last night I opened my arms
to embrace my muted dreams
and when I awoke I went around
shutting every door and window.
Nothing will happen. The sky
will go on circling above.
The trees will dig deeper.
In this corner of the planet, with
an angle of sunlight on my shoulder,
my pencil tucked away,
I stand up and leave.

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