Of Electric Whose Wires Are Uncoiled
the dead phone drops down the ground, the wires
of which wistfully whisk dust and rusty mist off
the window where four panes are set
parallel along two series of columned chairs, arranged
books, and canned goods and where a girl idly stands
by and must have been waiting for her last call to drop
off the air while remembering that day
when all the world's coins are thrown up across a sky
doubled, unarranged, high and heavy,
and when all phones are mere phony plastic bundles
Of Electric Whose Wires Are Uncoiled and Heavy,
like those absolute mystic days when someone dies
of which wistfully whisk dust and rusty mist off
the window where four panes are set
parallel along two series of columned chairs, arranged
books, and canned goods and where a girl idly stands
by and must have been waiting for her last call to drop
off the air while remembering that day
when all the world's coins are thrown up across a sky
doubled, unarranged, high and heavy,
and when all phones are mere phony plastic bundles
Of Electric Whose Wires Are Uncoiled and Heavy,
like those absolute mystic days when someone dies
Labels: Cirilo Bautista
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