Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Bench memory

Green, rusty on the side
uncleaned for years by the need of graffiti and noise
non-fighters, we love like secrets underneath the trees
I run my hand in the holes of the chap green painted wood
 figure real miracles like these are motionless, maps
how can these benches, old and stout
renounce our carvings
when they mark our names?.

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