— Luis Morales
After the storm, after the rain stops pounding
the moon reigns over a somber sky,
such pretty clouds such drifting light
stepping out of their bodies into the night –
seldom the ghosts come back bearing their tales
who, breathless in their amber atmosphere,
are a gray to be watching keenly…
considering the findings in the black garden.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
without skin, naked, hairless,
together here – at the abandoned finish line
cold, on the pillow’s dark side.