If you would disappear at sea,
if I would ride a horse over the mountains
from Chile to Mexico…

No, we are not in the movies.
I cannot promise you
the red wreaths of promise.

Two rooms watching each other.

The door is everywhere and yet
parenthetical, thankless;
so close to home, no way to get there.

We abandon ourselves, become
invisible, blowing over this

charred field, proud
that we have finished with
the pure amateur’s
defensive circling.