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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Kevin Killian - Pickpocket

Last night whistling I passed

by their alley, saw them in a

sidelong blink of light from

traffic, a speeding car, then

I went home. Dreamed of

gold skies, black money.  I

felt so stupid, to talk

about them feels stupid.  I’m

the sullen red Sun.


Bernadette leans from tenement

windows, sailors keep searching

world after world for

Bernadette, and her arms

are black, her outstretched

proffered palms all milky.

From them coins drop into

Pickpocket’s pockets freely.


Pickpocket’s face is pocked, his

arms are pocked.  I threw

his face in a lake to make it

ripple, he smokes a

cigar to an orange hot hole in

his face, a glow.  At night

the Sun’s a kid brought behind

the woodshed and abased.