By Domingo de Ramos

          On the road, smoky, more like oily
from Altamira where the little light
forms dreamy partitions in the dust
I grew up one of a kind on the ground-level trembling
grainy abolished and fictionalized
without opal to polish myself
I pulled myself up like a house under the moon
and I said to Diego Is this island or sea?
pointing to the scale model where a recently cut
breadcrumb was floating
No- he mumbled moving his pearly snout
it is Altamira and palpitating cherubs
getting submerged in the glow of streetlights
that turned the air into the mist
of cinemas paradisos and Diego who was more
profound than silence grabbed the whirlwind
demonized from fictions and his city imagined
his equestrian statue among the heaps
and in a click pushed away what was overwhelming him