A child-
still not an exile
nor a failed bard-
is skipping ropes
at sunset
in his native suburb
called Sueño
(another kid in the shade
of a flowering mango tree
still expects his father
from a far-off war
like a dog mourning
its master by his grave)
A red sun hangs
on the sea-scented horizon
glittering like a goldfish
in a plastic bag.
Here I am in this den
where no insulting light
could glimmer on my tears
like taking a curtain call
and bowing down
to be acknowledged
by an audience of ghost-
like beauties
in broad morbidezza
as though a swig of hemlock
I had drunk along with Keats
the blue-green waves of poetry
breaking at last into words
don't tarry long beside my gloom
