The new sun rises in the year’s elevation,
over the low roofs’ perspective.
It reveals the roughness of winter skin

As for that other thing
which comes when the eyelid is glazed
and the wax gleam

Marley was rocking on the transport’s stereo
and the beauty was humming the choruses quietly.
I could see where the lights on the planes of her cheek

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea

lumbering           logging           lonesome

             lugging

                                                            muggy weather

numbs my brain

Airplanes take us where we’re going and leave us there,

I crisscross my feelings with a view  
of street, people walking, some crazy looking, from a window 

              a box          a camera with a one-track mind

behind it

                 can’t see too good

Perhaps I’m kidding myself about
the life I lead

Sometimes I feel I’m dying

lines which are the imitation of imagined veins

                   passing thru my quivering city

     “your city?”