The corners have been filled with centipedes and walk out of control in my blood, filling these glass corners
for with their own eyes the feverish island life.
a poem may have been born there in the middle of shoes, but trampled dead and blue.
solid ink in letters, devoured by the blotter of my skin, which could not love him.
From now dwell in its shadow any street while awaiting a
or missed step will take the pampero , eternal scavenger of helplessness.
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