"barre" poems
i see so much of myself in you,
and you have such subtle give in your conviction,
your eyes are like mirrors,
your heart a hardwood floor,
but someone has ripped the barre
from this ballet studio,
i find no place in you
to steady myself.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
"i used to dance" -
what a horrible phrase
"i used to take my body
and use it to create beauty
in a physical form
but now i don't"
"i used to hear music
not just with my ears
but with my veins
but now i don't"
"i used to feel myself
being pulled across the stage
a puppet on invisible
but beautiful strings"
"i used to see everything
in the world and in nature
as a barre or a stage
but now i don't"
"i used to dance" -
what a horrible phrase
akin somehow to
"i used to live".
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
E shita lekuren bashke me kockat
E dhashe me cmim te lire
U lehtesova nga nje barre e rende
E mora udhen tutje si era...
Vetja s'mu duk rrugac,as shenjt
Per cudi u ndjeva me teper njeri!
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
“Dearest Degas,” she scrawled
script tipped and tainted by blood,
a reward only the most skilled of movement makers receive,
one she gives away all too freely.
“It’s times like these that make me think
I used to be a lot closer to God
and to you,
but the lines are blurring now
between you two
and I am burning now with memories
of the arch of your back echoed by brows
crested by beads of sweet sweat
raised higher still with finger-lickin’ lies
and lowered by our goodbyes.
They say my knees got lazy,
but I pray en pointe daily
at that battered barre,
my altar
closer to God than they’ve ever been.
And it’s His name I speak,
spoke
over us as we rolled in our sin.
‘Turn to God!’ they screamed
but you were always a better comforter than He.
And without you to give me form,
I will dance no more.”
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
You've got a flat screen mounted
on your kitchen wall with zip
ties and chewing gum.
There's an ashtray by your left
wrist, and a tattoo on your right
of a midnight street light sunshine
shine
down
on a reupholstered love seat,
only used twice: once for the Eisenhowers,
once for last weekend watching Seinfeld
reruns, putting out Sonomas and *** talk
on the twill-like cushions in that dank
basement apartment w/ poster'd brick
walls.
Slayer, Sinatra, Sabbath, Springsteen,
a Space Cowboy, and something Sanskrit
above your box-springless mattress
about the cosmos spitting hellfire
next month because we didn't sacrifice
crumpled dollars yesterday, or Clinton
in the '90s. There are masses of humans paying
for the market collapse that sent 800,000
oranges rolling into the street, cold.
God-fearing couples are abstaining from ***
to save their souls from the ******
Rapture. Cable cords are being unplugged
in the middle of A Christmas Story so people
can hang themselves from church steeples
to avoid ruining their Chuck Taylor Loafer
Tennis Shoes in the molten **** suffocating
saplings and parking meters. Christ'll save
the righteous ones, the ones strung up closest
to the bell tower.
The parish hall radio says salvation's
only as good as a new haircut.
And that we should all pick up the warped
acoustic guitar in the cellar, and try
to form barre chords with our swollen
knuckles and arthritic wrists now
because punk music will be dead tomorrow.
Hell, the postman will be dead tomorrow,
and every little postcard, paycheck, and print
coupon he's carrying will be dead, too.
There is an ashtray by your left wrist,
and a tattoo on your right.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
I am from
A yellow house and a little red bike
Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees
From learning every time I fall
I am from
The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen
Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies
From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch
I am from
Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams
The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies
From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road
I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists
Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s
Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock
From denial and acceptance
I am from
Tea with my mom and driving with my dad
My beautiful Hazel
From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn
I am from soft white clouds of comforters
A room painted the shade of pink lemonade
Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet
From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley
I am from a collection of keys with no locks
Chewed cuticles and paper cuts
A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping
From the love of glue and sharp scissors
I am from years of ***** bare feet
And freedom to be me
Getting the mail everyday except Sunday
From picnic tables and corn on the cob
I am from a love of language and words and poetry
A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl
A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge
And just as supportive too
I am from my dream catcher
Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars
A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall
From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses
I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders
A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass
Brave New World and Brandy Melville
From tweeting and handwritten letters
I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers
My favorite black leotard and Fuentes
12 years of pointed feet and tutus
From the dressing room and the barre
I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles
Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday
Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes
From my dad
I am from the cornfields and red barns
Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk
Valedictorians and Ivy leagues
From my mom
But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself
The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain
The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness
From the love of life and belief and hope
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
We were walking
down some street
well,
I was walking
He had a scooter
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
have you ever felt
lost
in a deadly abyss of
thought?
it's emotionally
exhaustive
and socially
caustic
to be caught
thinking
thoughts
instead of
singing
songs.
with those
disturbing thoughts
come a lot of
perturbing feelings
and if you've ever
been unable
to explain or
detain
one of those feelings
just know that
you are not
alone.
not all of us can
assign a name
to an emotion
however benign
not all of us are so
well acquainted
with our own minds
that we can picture
the face in our brains
staring us down
but i'm daring you
the next time you
cannot justify
cannot simplify
or expedite
a feeling down
to a name
just don't
even
try.
place your finger
over that emotion
the way you would barre
your guitar strings
heart strings on
the second fret
gently
gently
run your other
hand down over
the sound hole
located somewhere
between your
stomach and
sorely neglected
central nervous system
and then pull
it back up
to play the
melody of your
most knotted
spinal chord
not too fast
not too loud
or if you find
it easier to see
the white notes laid out
unroll the shiny top
over your backbone
and press down
softly
softly
bending your fingers up
and down each
key of vertebrate
in an ascending or
descending scale
the length of which
depends upon
how tall you are.
slowly
slowly
forget
about
names
faces
sleepless nights
or how your insecurity
is still on par with
you at fourteen
when you first tried
to exploit it into music
but now you've found it best
just to tuck it behind your ears.
and learn
the cadence of
that feeling
explore each
note and tone
and play with
how it fits into
a song
surrounded by
other sounds.
you may never
play it again
you may play it
every day
for the rest of
your life
but all that is
irrelevant
in light of this
moment
a few seconds of
stilted peace and quiet.
listen to your
feelings
until your fingers
bleed
out the suppressed
emotions
society expects you
to ignore
play them like
you were in
an orchestra
and this was the
moment
of your solo
but don't
name
anything
unless you're
calling it cadd9
gsus4
em
or a7
and never
find yourself
or your
heart strings
afraid
of f#m
or even the darkest of
spinal chords
for i know that
everyone has cried
alone in the
dead of night
over the sound of
b flat.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
We love in reverse.
The way that doesn’t make sense.
Because the extensions of my body don’t reach toward you, but away. The lines bend back and not forward, twisting me into positions that I’m not supposed to be.
And when I walk the floor pushes me away heel, ball, toe
Instead of welcoming me comfortably toe, ball, heel.
And I know this isn’t the way this is supposed to feel.
But I still need you to correct me.
Place your hand underneath my chin and tell me the floor is not my audience. Close the curtains on the mirror and make me trust. This dance is just between the two of us.
Then focus in on my shoulders, push them down and make my collarbones appear stronger. Stroke my sternocleidomastoid as I épaulment and tell me that it’s the most beautiful muscle to see. Run your hands down my arms and create the energy that is supposed to flow from my fingers as they reach for arabesque.
Move next to my torso. Hold my abs together to keep my spine aligned.
Then move your hands in a soft semi-circle from the inside of my thighs and turn them out. Hold my knees over top my toes in the perfect plié.
And then straighten them to the most lengthened position they could be, leaving them with nowhere else to go but up.
Help my feet and heart to soar as they push off the floor and then you’ve set me free.
Lean your back against the barre and watch me dance your taunting choreography perfectly.
You have made me love what I do because every time I dance I do it for you. When I close my eyes I imagine you behind me guiding my soul and showing my body where it ought to be.
You hold me tight as I lay my head back against your invisible chest and I inhale, take one deep breath before you send me spinning back into the room.
I can feel you with me, but you’re never really there. So I push away the air with my hands knowing that with one more arabesque you won’t be able to resist this chance. Because my smile is always aimed in your direction when I practice your steps, your breath, your moves.
Only for you will I seek this perfection.
And the dance goes on and on; never ending. And I’ll keep feelings things that I know not to feel, keep walking toward you all heels
No toes
Because without you this is a dance I don’t know. The extensions are fake and the lines not real.
But that is love in reverse. The combination always looks ten times worse. So I’m hoping that you’ll step out of the shadows and take me back
To the dance we rehearsed.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
Mobile/Stabile - I don’t speak French
Main two types of mainly 3D artist
Alexander “sandy” Calder
Mobile - is a French pun meaning both "motion" and "motive"
If you had one of these above your crib to muse over as you drifted to dreamland, you have Sandy to thank.
Stabile- following the style of the name mobile, is a sculpture that is unmovable
Both are French words I have trouble saying
I am becoming or was becoming paralyzed from my feet up
(they still haven’t decided which,
feel free to laugh at that)
Feel free to laugh at all of it, I do
I have complications from unbeknownst year long scarlet fever that turned into rheumatic fever that turned into julian Barre to thank for that.
There is no cure, so I’m using condescension.
I call it Julian Barre because “Gee YAWN BERET” is just so **** hard to eek out.
And
It requires more pomp than it deserves
Okay it’s part condescension and part more French words I can’t quite say.
It’s sort of like the opposite of when I try to say “petit” pwessON” to be cute, I mean to say Little Fish to address my partner:
But instead say “petit pwazOne” which means
little Poison
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
Desnuda como un yunque, mesa mía,
no admites ni una flor para tu adorno,
nada se aquieta en ti ni permanece:
el torrente infantil lo barre todo
***** tintero, blando cartapacio,
búcaro de cristal o marco de oro
hace mucho que están en las alturas
o yacen de cajones en el fondo.
Cuando me llego a ti ya voy completo:
el pensamiento musical y pronto,
estilográfica en la mano
y una hoja sale de un bolsillo o de otro,
¿Cómo será una mesa aderezada
bajo la fija claridad de un foco,
con una rosa erguida en una copa,
sin una brizna de papel o polvo?
La pluma ha de correr oleosamente
y el período o la estrofa fluir solos.
Mas ¿quién piensa en el orden un instante
bailando alrededor varios demonios
que saltan sobre ti como si fueras
en la campaña fugitivo potro?
Éste abre su libro de lectura,
ése levanta mapas policromos,
aquél corta figuras de revistas
y las pega en cuadernos ampulosos
a pinceladas de indomable engrudo
que, de paso, salpican el contorno.
Tal vez así se escriba con ventaja,
entre gritos, moquetes y sollozos,
y el cerebro agradezca el espolazo
como el fijar el hierro presuroso,
como la tierra el filo de la reja
o como el mar los remos espumosos.
Así te han puesto más de quince años
cual banco de escolares revoltosos,
que elaborando sobre ti se han ido
el verso más o menos primoroso
o la resta pueril, o el mapa alegre,
cosas de niño, de poeta y loco.
Sobre tu desnudez leo y medito
contra la tabla, persistente, el codo,
o me cruzo de brazos resignado
en la actitud cerrada del estoico.
Mesa: estés como estés, así te dejo,
ni te pulo, te lustro, ni repongo,
hemos de continuar como hasta ahora:
ya sabemos los dos que falta poco.
940
hay un ojo de fuego sentado en mi mesa
come las penas contagiosas
un ojo de fuego come a los compañeros contagiosos
que ordenaron a sus niñitos caer
como hombres de pie contra la muerte
un niñito era dulce como amargo arrabal
otro amaba a la reina del plata
todos ataron su corazón con mares
ninguno había leído la revolución en un libro
la revolución fue para ellos un ojo de fuego
el viento que barre a los astros
un árbol subido al pajarito más audaz
un gran amor tirando al fuego la tristeza
el mundo amargo como un arrabal
crepitaban como el esposo en la esposa
el amor no los dejaba dormir
saltaban de la noche para ir al combate
contra las injusticias insoportables
las verguenzas las humillaciones insoportables
el capitalismo no los dejaba dormir
hay un ojo de fuego en mi mesa
sirve un plato de compañeros bellos
están soñando con la gente
siempre soñaron que la gente es más alta que el sol/
siempre soñaron que la gente podía ser más alta
que el sol/
están haciendo una cuna para mecer al mundo
para abrigar calores que vendrán
para estrenar un beso sin fondo.
791
Traspasada por junio,
por España y la sangre,
se levanta mi lengua
con clamor a llamarte.
Campesino que mueres,
campesino que yaces
en la tierra que siente
no tragar alemanes,
no morder italianos:
español que te abates
con la nuca marcada
por un yugo infamante,
que traicionas al pueblo
defensor de los panes:
campesino, despierta,
español, que no es tarde.
Calabozos y hierros,
calabozos y cárceles,
desventuras, presidios,
atropellos y hambres,
eso estás defendiendo,
no otra cosa más grande.
Perdición de tus hijos,
maldición de tus padres,
que doblegas tus huesos
al verdugo sangrante,
que deshonras tu trigo,
que tu tierra deshaces,
campesino, despierta,
español, que no es tarde.
Retroceden al hoyo
que se cierra y se abre,
por la fuerza del pueblo
forjador de verdades,
escuadrones del crimen,
corazones brutales,
dictadores del polvo,
soberanos voraces.
Con la prisa del fuego,
en un mágico avance,
un ejército férreo
que cosecha gigantes
los arrastra hasta el polvo,
hasta el polvo los barre.
No hay quien sitie la vida,
no hay quien cerque la sangre
cuando empuña sus alas
y las clava en el aire.
La alegría y la fuerza
de estos músculos parte
como un hondo y sonoro
manantial de volcanes.
Vencedores seremos,
porque somos titanes
sonriendo a las balas
y gritando: ¡Adelante!
La salud de los trigos
sólo aquí huele y arde.
De la muerte y la muerte
sois: de nadie y de nadie.
De la vida nosotros,
del sabor de los árboles.
Victoriosos saldremos
de las fúnebres fauces,
remontándonos libres
sobre tantos plumajes,
dominantes las frentes,
el mirar dominante,
y vosotros vencidos
como aquellos cadáveres.
Campesino, despierta,
español, que no es tarde.
A este lado de España
esperamos que pases:
que tu tierra y tu cuerpo
la invasión no se trague.
787
Estos poemas los desencadenaste tú,
como se desencadena el viento,
sin saber hacia dónde ni por qué.
Son dones del azar o del destino,
que a veces
la soledad arremolina o barre;
nada más que palabras que se encuentran,
que se atraen y se juntan
irremediablemente,
y hacen un ruido melodioso o triste,
lo mismo que dos cuerpos que se aman.
706
Vino el que yo quería
el que yo llamaba.
No aquel que barre cielos sin defensas.
luceros sin cabañas,
lunas sin patria,
nieves.
Nieves de esas caídas de una mano,
un nombre,
un sueño,
una frente.
No aquel que a sus cabellos
ató la muerte.
El que yo quería.
Sin arañar los aires,
sin herir hojas ni mover cristales.
Aquel que a sus cabellos
ató el silencio.
Para sin lastimarme,
cavar una ribera de luz dulce en mi pecho
y hacerme el alma navegable.
718
Alguien barre
y canta
y barre
(zuecos en la madrugada).
Alguien
dispara las puertas.
¡Qué miedo,
madre!
(¡Ay, los que en andas del viento,
en un velero a estas horas
vayan arando los mares!)
Alguien barre
y canta
y barre.
Algún caballo, alejándose,
imprime su pie en el eco
de la calle.
¡Qué miedo,
madre!
¡Si alguien llamara a la puerta!
¡Si se apareciera padre
con su túnica talar
chorreando!...
¡Qué horror,
madre!
Alguien barre
y canta
y barre.
709
Enfant aux airs d'impératrice,
Colombe aux regards de faucon,
Tu me hais, mais c'est mon caprice,
De me planter sous ton balcon.
Là, je veux, le pied sur la borne,
Pinçant les nerfs, tapant le bois,
Faire luire à ton carreau morne
Ta lampe et ton front à la fois.
Je défends à toute guitare
De bourdonner aux alentours.
Ta rue est à moi : - je la barre
Pour y chanter seul mes amours,
Et je coupe les deux oreilles
Au premier racleur de jambon
Qui devant la chambre où tu veilles
Braille un couplet mauvais ou bon.
Dans sa gaine mon couteau bouge ;
Allons, qui veut de l'incarnat ?
A son jabot qui veut du rouge
Pour faire un bouton de grenat ?
Le sang dans les veines s'ennuie,
Car il est fait pour se montrer ;
Le temps est noir, gare la pluie !
Poltrons, hâtez-vous de rentrer.
Sortez, vaillants ! sortez, bravaches !
L'avant-bras couvert du manteau,
Que sur vos faces de gavaches
J'écrive des croix au couteau !
Qu'ils s'avancent ! seuls ou par bande,
De pied ferme je les attends.
A ta gloire il faut que je fende
Les naseaux de ces capitans.
Au ruisseau qui gêne ta marche
Et pourrait salir tes pieds blancs,
Corps du Christ ! je veux faire une arche
Avec les côtes des galants.
Pour te prouver combien je t'aime,
Dis, je tuerai qui tu voudras :
J'attaquerai Satan lui-même,
Si pour linceul j'ai tes deux draps.
Porte sourde ! - Fenêtre aveugle !
Tu dois pourtant ouïr ma voix ;
Comme un taureau blessé je beugle,
Des chiens excitant les abois !
Au moins plante un clou dans ta porte :
Un clou pour accrocher mon coeur.
A quoi sert que je le remporte
Fou de rage, mort de langueur ?
693
On my toes,
Hand on the barre
Your hand has my waist
I find comfort in your embrace
I lift my toes to rest in the crease of my knee
you can let go
Is what everyone tells me
I take my hand off the barre
I trust you To hold me upright
Or at least catch me
I fall on already bruised knees.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
I haven't been saturated
in rain for
some time
or bathed in soapy shades
of color -
I haven't touched my hip-
bone
to a ballet barre
or even
talked to my
mother
I haven't felt the tiny hand
of a child touch my arm
or ran without the need for speed
or been to my best friend's
farm
- it happened a few years ago
and I really am not sure why
I fell into a sleepy spell
between now and when you
died -
I moved to the desert,
and I hardly said goodbye...
It's the hottest place I've ever been,
but that's not what made me dry.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
***J'accuses
me,
that Stevie Rhymer
felony thievery, wholesale robbery,
of them blunts of good words,
and stashed the hiding fumes in my lungs
plead guilty,
with a Cool Hand Luke
studied pretense and a
huge ear to ear smirking of a
"who me"
innocence
it seems mucho unseemly,
bright pink tongue laughable,
stealing that chaste yellowed white chaff conceptual,
innocenctal,
cause i'm knowing it's well buried, lost-littered,
across the poppies of a poem-field
GPS mapped as
My Very Own Private Flanders
this one-night-only lynching of a yoga-flexible,
occasional reappearing conscience,
taking a short bow,
loosened by a
Manufactured in the USA,
cross-continental heat seeking arrowed
verbal verdict
soul and control,
two words that should rhyme,
but don't,
so in the valley of the bleached bones,
find me spending my last San Fran dime,
entrance fee to the accountant's confessional,
who greets me with a quizzical
why the hell are you prepaying this year's sin tax?
this confessing gig
awfully tiring,
like locating all those
?'s, periods and commas,
punk'd punchuation on the the keyboard,
of who you are
yeah, stole them all, them words,
burnt off the serial killing numbers,
now untraceable, masked in a thousand poems
that no one commissioned and barely read
in a vision,
i see my Barre gray gravestone appropriately blank,
steel cut smooth,
like a clean sheet of foolscap
an enterprising thief came along,
stole all the useful
Alphabets and numerals
to my vociferous silent applause
you see Stevie,
all those good words,
and literary hints from an over educated man,
ain't worth a good god ****
when u just lazy emoji these days
so take 'em, anyone,
great honor to me to see them
pray rise someone else's field,
in a new poem
by somebody else***
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
You...
Feel the ***** of your feet
Each step painting a tapestry
Each breath left unnoticed
Each move unrelenting...
Neither of us
Wished I were here
What should've been a revival
became default to a recital
And every pirouette
A moment none of us
Should have missed
... and I'm no better
I'd've penned you letters
Each with the broken, desperate intent
And secret hope, you'd just throw it away
But I can feel in each Poisson
As i fish for every moment you've lost
And the tilte barre
Cant fulfill your absent tomorrows
I could have staged for you
an "I'm sorry"
Now every time I hear your laugh
In playback or live from a hundred miles
Your giggles reignite in me
A flame through a negative
The moments as they might be
But here we are
And where we both were left to be
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 12:00 AM UTC
with every dance
I forget your face
as I pique across the floor and
turn and turn
and turn
and spin
and try
to lose the dizzy
refuse to stumble
to the barre.
you always loved a ballerina.
I forget your cold
words
as I pas de chat
across the floor
and I jump so high
like my feet are burning
like the floor is
filled with
burning coals
the feeling I had
the last time I saw you.
Jump, you doe,
hop away.
get out of here.
I forgot you until
the waltz turn.
until my arms went in and out
and my feet pranced up and down.
and I spun and I spun
and spun
and let the dizzy
fly away as
I refuse to stumble
to the barre.
I had never been a dancer until now.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Quand Don Juan descendit vers l'onde souterraine
Et lorsqu'il eut donné son obole à Charon,
Un sombre mendiant, l'oeil fier comme Antisthène,
D'un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.
Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes,
Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament,
Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,
Derrière lui traînaient un long mugissement.
Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages,
Tandis que Don Luis avec un doigt tremblant
Montrait à tous les morts errant sur les rivages
Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.
Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre Elvire,
Près de l'époux perfide et qui fut son amant,
Semblait lui réclamer un suprême sourire
Où brillât la douceur de son premier serment.
Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre
Se tenait à la barre et coupait le flot noir,
Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapière,
Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.
481
Yo meditaba absorto, devanando
los hilos del hastío y la tristeza,
cuando llegó a mi oído,
por la ventana de mi estancia, abiertaa una caliente noche de verano,
el plañir de una copia soñolienta,
quebrada por los trémolos sombríos
de las músicas magas de mi tierra.... Y era el Amor, como una roja llama...
-Nerviosa mano en la vibrante cuerda
ponía un largo suspirar de oro
que se trocaba en surtidor de estrellas-.... Y era la Muerte, al hombro la cuchilla,
el paso largo, torva y esquelética.
-Tal cuando yo era niño la soñaba-.Y en la guitarra, resonante y trémula,
la brusca mano, al golpear, fingía
el reposar de un ataúd en tierra.Y era un plañido solitario el soplo
que el polvo barre y la ceniza avienta.
462