Your thinning hair has the look of wishes. Even your skin is riddled with white space, a fiction. And your arms’ flesh-colored wash is
Tell everybody I’m still kicking and stomping, just not quite as high. Didn’t have much for lunch, had an avocado for breakfast. Ran a
Translated by Lola Hidalgo-Calle and Mark Putnam I never enter, I surrender to its noble narrowness of winters without escape with braziers in the