Your room would only be complete
with music and a tired cat,
a phone pleading
and no hand to lift it.
From the window, a sidewalk
lined with willows would stretch on.
On the wall, a map of the city
would peek from behind your back.
Under the table,
a pair of battered boots, your size.
You will hear sycamore leaves
breaking like glass.
Your wrists will join like palms,
like the murmur crossing your life.
Back to Ernesto Trejo
