It’s your name and it’s also December
the last lights of the town blank out
like the pulse that climbs two churches
and stops
I watch you fall asleep
and find you
not the hunter but the deer
find you
a patch of flowers
on a terrace facing the white sea
winter without end
in other cities men rise
in other dreams cities rise nameless
a brook forks when your fingers part
or else the procession of the wind
pauses before your fingers
it’s the spaces between stars
the quiet march of the sun
lying in ambush
it’s the words that stop squealing
what skin isn’t bare
what fist doesn’t pound on a wall
it’s the snow blowing through every garden
entering every house
(Ernesto Trejo)
More Poetry from Ernesto Trejo:
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