THE EXILE DIARIES
1st of December
You don’t have time to look
although you’ve been thinking
of it for a while:
to look at the shadow of a cow on the clouds
the girl who shovels manure
a few images of hills
in relation to the barbwire,
images of the air in the air.
Leave the words behind
carry the dead on door panels
fast, faster, even faster.
The ward is empty;
the rubber gloves of the surgeon
have holes;
I see his fingers.
Old newspapers
spread over the dry cotton plants;
a dog rips the wind
with his snout;
garbage of the week
bones, snow, poems
under the bed.
Libros Libertad 