...the gullet of a hand
pulls out pigeons
from the throat,

the throat

is a wind tunnel,
a corridor to a small room-

the wind
is a measure

of losses.

I am searching
for a way out.

I am a boomerang
returning to point A

as if point B
never existed;

the idea
is to remain


and drop alms
in the cups

of the poor.

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