Poem - Buenos Aires
Winter had already come.
I was reading Robert Lowell,
whose ill-spirit sobbed in each blood cell.
Nothing so fiercely felt, on my part.
Each morning I read the American news
and chose to take the bus to class so I could see the city.
Flocks of schoolchildren in white coats
took the place of pigeons, who preferred New York.
Instead of the sun I imagined a fragile, dusty lamp in the sky—
