There’s a kid in the distance

The pylons greet her,
In salvos of raw metal
That the snow bends aimlessly

On the four-lane road.

Two slow caravans
With eyes that are out of focus
Protect from the smoke

The little one panting

A motel, her spectator
looks down on the black rubble,
The child steals shoes

From the trunk filled with

Of a pissed-off engineer
At the wheel of a Bentley
Smooth pyrotechnics,

Sleep of a cylinder

Girl, do not shed a tear!
Your shadow tumbles
On this mirror of oil

Let us cross the tollgate,

Distant and soggy,
The lines control themselves,
The brushes close again,

And my jaw flares up.

This forest of fog,
Crumpled by the planes,

Has the voice of a beggar