First Evening Walk Along the Avenida Alcalde Álvaro Domecq
A poem for Sunday
Bitter oranges
slip onto the
asphalt. Eucalyptus
sweeps the wind
and pollen. August
rolls over into
September. September,
October. Having
turned 44,
I can’t say exactly
what it is I desire,
but I desire it
so much—I can
think of nothing else.
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