Ene 16, 2015


Say of Paris that one day you grew tired of walking.
The meters calling up the bags to visit, not to come

over as friends. A Cesar whistled to be stoned
there, was forgiven for sentiment, re

marked, membered. Minded a pat
square between the blades. As if you’d have flicked my

Marcelo a cigarette, spitting as you do at your gutters

to groom the mice.
Surrender the most obstinate of our traits.

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