Poetry

That night I read The Revolt of the Masses not yet knowing
that at that same hour they
set houses on fire. They say,
an old woman tossed in flames trying

[…]

All I can do
to keep from believing
where, in truth, your last steps led,

In some last inventory, I’ll have lost a season,
through the occlusion
of summer by another hemisphere.

I breathe the leaves of the basil
It has news for me—
For all my senses