what an acrid, sour taste
the words formed but unspoken
born into my throat
hesitating on the threshold
bread burning at the door of Vallejo´s oven
decay on my tongue like little firry animals
turned into roadkill
like little turtles that never reach the sea.
snatched and devoured by the brown birds of inertia and fear
wash them in spirits
smother them in cake
dissolve them in tears
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario