XXVII

And to celebrate
that fog too pertains to us,
we stir up memories, we scatter books
distantly and newspapers,
we pursue a world of impermeable journeys.

            “November is a sentimental
            disorder", you tell me.

So we kiss
and your eyes, mine,
begin to fume,
to colonize the doubts of our rooms,
escape from the windows of our house,
entangle themselves in the streets and cut through neighborhoods,
making the city flood
while, love, you tell me weakly
that you will not return with me,
not now.