Harmonica
You are at the far end, and I hear you singing
you’re the depth into which I hide.
The harmonica that reaches us
holds the sharpened sickle in its hands.
All things I won’t ever see laugh sardonically
fluorescent lamps light my sleep.
Sleep like hell and sweat on the bedsheets
I eat you; you eat me with candlesticks during the dinner.
Ah, how the days make me heavy,
how I make them heavy.
Anger and customs tyrannize me.
How bitter is the I love you coming from strange lips
how broken is the rhythm of my poems?
Libros Libertad 