the flea market sales
love the arms cut
come from long trips
heads were bowed, moving
sun burn
gulls still pull
cuts in its

and her silent
silent and not to retaliate
aware of the illusion
month of honey

But I noticed one
with veins dried
a luminous liquid
aristocrat drained
slowly through my mind
I said:
“Sometime carry mountains
probable truths ”
Now it was sad
only heart in hands
few minutes we reached a
Watching the eyes fixed
there was no blood, no death

dark light
as in a deep dungeon
where usually swarm
hunting poems
This was

I come today
on the table instead of lamps
an unfinished journey

pass through it every night
and yet not give the end

the flea market
love the arms cut
come from long trips
expected to be taken home
who dare?
They are those in marble
no sleep ever