– after Guillermo Portabales
Like a breeze from the plains, deliciously weary,
the tres coaxes him down slow roads. He remembers:
trees, the ocean as it lows – they are lovers always
departing. Yes, always asking: How far to Mayari?
Even so? With his mother's evening voice, this night –
how it speaks sure the words he'd forgotten long –
some boy unschooled, new to the world and secrets.