The air is green, flush with young citrus and the cold morning brings a base note of candle wax. I wake from a dream of doubled lives and presence independent of proximity. Of vacancy at arm’s length and closeness borne on the backs of swifts.

The fence is home to a carousel of language, a brittle and plastic exchange, terrestrial remarks that seem to hunger for the bird’s flight. The decor isn’t more than a spent RV with a mouth full of tumbleweeds, but I return again and again to this dead place, so raw and happy in its abandon. There are new letters today, bubbled and upended, pasted over yesterday’s sun-scrubbed exclamations. Someone has pinned a sign to the center of this fence –my fence– that reads LECTURA DE CARTAS, as if wielding a sharp plexor at my knee.

Still, there’s a single star aloft in the sapphire glow and horses pass hallucinatory between us. I come here alone, where the cactus communes with the razorwire and the sparrows lend their complexion to the dust, to trace the shadow of your garden upon the desert. To sing your song back to you in words that glance the surface of things and watch your voice cast its lace over the world.