Redondo 2004

Redondo 2004.

The little black man is buying wine, so
am I, gives me a conspiratorial smile.
Our hands a fluttering bird wings, waits
to take flight at night, dreams and music
only we can hear no need for a radio.
This nocturnal practice, we speak to no
one of, then it’s morning as we wait for
twilight time and a new solitary journey
through our many yesterdays begins.