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| ".... Escondido along the arena your skirt surrounding your legs, your lips sighing with every puff of smoke every time you light a cigarette I know what you get. I'll explain again, again without words while the zonda, and cello, persists in scratching ; ; sobre el borde del alféizar las ventanas de madera de la casa. Siguen mis manos impulsando vientos cálidos. Restalla apagada sobre el piso entablonado la crujiente desert sand. Later remain November. continue, Mendoza passionate this slow day. Outdoor still slowly numb and urban as always will from the siesta. " (Huarpe or Berber, Geographies of Fire) |
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