Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

wet stones no one understands him as I do i hear fervid winds in the stillness of his hands [no one rubbed my narrow walls as he did  we danced to death's song without any recollection  of another life] i claim two sighs and a large garland  but if he's never to return we'll drown this grief together  wet stones orbiting restless echoes in a drop of rain

Postcard to Michael Ondaatje ii Michael, I’m tenderly picking you up from the floor like a delicate feather, putting you between the two  sheets of my favorite poem,  whose pages I’ll gradually close and put away forever.