So I went out on a bike ride because it felt like Mendoza this morning.

8:34 pm

Air is never sickly –
hazy, smoky, foggy, crisp,
dry. But never sickly.

I imagine this haze
is a veil of fog
rising out of asphalt,
and dirt streets,

brick buildings lit
too dimly inside. I
imagine the coldness
of the morning.

I imagine the
smell, the not-home-
baked bread and I
imagine the exquisite

beauty of those
chains of crusty rolls.

8:40 pm

Darkness is not
only thick, but visible
in a way that’s hard
to imagine inside.

One moon isn’t
enough on a night
like this. Its
yellow is too

Autumnal, its fullness
too near to me, its
roundness too incomplete.

I will not look to see
if it waxes or wanes,
I will look at a dark path
to see it does not cut.

8:46 pm

Cain and Abel must
anticipate swapping stories.
Brothers in a lonely land
must share more than
a table and lentil soup,
Dipping torn crusts, and
buttering cut bread.
A hot knife was never
needed to slip through
and divide
such exquisite feeling.
When I sat and ate with
them, I looked from brother
to brother and
felt at home.