domingo, 28 de fevereiro de 2016

a man carrying bags
walks by my post
the bags chain him down
to this curly world

thin and pale is
the skeleton’s outdoor
glasses hang intense
trying to see God

one shoulder points upright
his limbs lowly row
not for the first time
crosses me this ghost

bridges we had burned
cutting up the flow
and deeper was the cut
that made up our souls

in the river now
the bridges come and go
still the same bags
chain us to this world