El Guajiro

A poem

– 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.

Steve Wilson

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