I watched clouds break, crumble and scatter
Like Baudelaire’s clouds would never do.*

Baudelaire said**

~I love the clouds…the passing clouds…up there…up there…the marvelous clouds!

Grey ones afar and white ones near, clouds
Can rupture
This is how literature is made
any day in Ecuador, or anywhere else.
Poetry is not innocent.

You ‘d better get used to it
Bolaño said
An indivual is no match for history

I ask how things were in his Chilean land
But he does not answer. He died
In Barcelona

I try not to digress to homemade Snickers
And gooey Caramel Sweets
In marvelous clouds

You ‘d better get used to it
Bolaño said

When the sounds of black insects and worms
Whisper an unfamiliar syllabus to the poet
Exposed

To bright sunlight at noon in the Andes
It brings
Nothing
Only dry bones in the yard
Unattended by the dog

I can string cloud words
Together in slender sadness
In exchange of
Choked

Roots of the willow for fresh leaves
Beware, a tree in winter may
Fall

*By Night in Chile
** The Stranger