a poem by Roger B Rueda
in her vegetal garden, tipping
the discoloured bucket:
well-water outflows
in the verdures, like soup
into lime boules. Over-filling:
water drips through soil-
holes, once more into stone well
where it waits for him, who
will not come to change
the thick cover. I clasp her
tissue-hand in, was it?, magic.
No comments:
Post a Comment