Chapultepec
Oct 19, 2020
A poem from 2014 & 2024
Moving moving Condesa, Sunset, Gràcia, Harlem
a leap of faith
Stuffing a sock
Down fear’s fat throat
As if that could keep it quiet
On every quilted night
I sought
A cure for living
Yes another city
I trip in flat shoes
Would rather go it alone
In most everything
Bosques means forests which is really a park
Eight million trees
it rains every day
In the summer here
I knew only droughts
on the old farmland sold away
Across a border
I pretend the life I inhabit
is known to me,
That I adapt
No one waits for me
There is no home
When I thought ahead
I wanted a little place one day
On land quiet with shade,
some trees to set my fences
Alone
is easier
Bosques, its trees remain
