another proffesional begger
the saxophone gathers up its dreams in match boxes
I could swear that I have memories only of you
flying our nights with sales hunting the presence
of a sure morning
an antropomorphic indian dance of pure dreams
inside one midnight
if we didn't know we could dream
would we dream?
I do not hide my eyes
behind these green straps of urban refugee
how my steps bored with time used to
walk my memories throughout the city
these curly alleys draw there
Mom why is this gentleman
throwing pebbles into the lake?