DAWN (I) Comments

The street-dweller is made
of doves in flight and withered dreams;
of colorless dawns and warm bodies,
the retreat to his refuge.
A generous smell of semen
a thick air of secret respirations
surrounds his messy bed
when the flute induces abandonment
and the travelling night withdraws.
The bitter tenderness of vomit
and the blue angels with bags under their eyes
float in the fire of his feverish breath.
Outside
the day hammers in the factories
trains deflower the transparent morning
and the aroma of fresh bread
gets mixed up with the moist smell of the markets.
It is the diamond day
eternal in its swaying and brimming with questions
walking with rough boots
on the tombstone over the lone sleeper.
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