as birds accustomed to
the holocaust of clouds
searching in those pockets so full
of deceptions and illegible small notes: desperate,
of inconsequential transgressions;
of irrelevant nap time sins – with its vile
and stupidly incompetent innocence,
of pieces of everything useless that the day treasures: elements
to intervene inefficiently on memory and dreams.
Hands as light as certain promises,
just seeking shelter
where there’s hardly a worthless coin,
a recurring lint,
an obsolete faith.
© Marcelo Wio