The coffee flavor wears my morning cravings.
It is me, the pragmatic trashcan fallen on its head,
Thrown away by the third floor neighbor while cleaning hers thoughts catcher,
The rain squashing her trusses, linden buds children's,
On the newspaper-smeared face of the window.
In the distance legs throwing windmills
To the compromises filled belly of the asphalt
That caresses the grass blades that never caught the daylight.
I'm sick of the onion tubers
That raise their perfumed flowers from the sun and tobacco burned jaws
Of the masons that dress the ...