IT WAS Poem by Antonio Gamoneda
IT WAS
IT WAS
the mortal music, the shriek
of the incessant horses, it was
a funeral pavane at the hour
of bloodied cotton.
It was the slumping of a thousand heads,
the gargoyle, its maternal howl, the circles
of the tormented hen.
It is still, once again, the lime, the chilly
bone between our hands, the
policeman's black marrow.
Thursday, June 21, 2018
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4/29/2024 11:45:41 AM # 1.0.0.1119
