WORLD STOPS

 

I wrote my

poem

keeping my balance

on just one

foot.

 

I put in order

stars and

clouds

and years,

standing

in the transparent

night

of this Earth

that is no more

than just another

shining dot

in the firmament

and in the insidious

January

rains:

all the time

and all

that exists

about the word

existence.

 

And when

I went to write it,

thrilled,

the ink ran out

in the fountain

pen.

 

This happened to me.

 

 

 

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