Christopher Presfield

Homage Cesar Vallejo

the voice is huge like an airship
floating in gray, skied stone
spread out to shadow, to death
and life not even God would lift;
how it waits in books, your comb
and crimp in a collar, that spider
you considered killing, the urge
to write oneself into morning
drowning in a glass of beer,
while men go mad down corridors
you can't walk without a cane;
how each night it lingers more
like an old chant, a spent candle
the tip of every finger recalls.




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