Inside, perfect / strangers shed their day / a hull of amber—
shadow puppets / empty armchairs / set tables / curtains split
to comfort / life
without a hole inside it.  

Ah, all those days that flowed
through my sorrows and anxieties!
In my country at this moment
another writer is experiencing them too.
Don't be afraid, my friend.

When he laughs, there is so much
of him—multiple pieces: and, of, or, if. What are our names?

A lover who doesn’t eat has lost control of my hands. So has the moon. / And I’ve lost control of my money. I call that grief.

Two performers, Asun Noales and Sebastian Rowisnki,
stand in a circle of small jaguar heads. 
The heads are sculpted from pearl-white plastic
by an artist named Susana Guerrero.
The heads are perfectly identical.
Their mouths stretch agape, as if caught mid-roar.
Beyond rows of jagged teeth, 
each throat swells with inky black.

It helps to know, especially
when you’re hiding.