June already， it's your birth month，
nine months since the towers fell.
I set olive twigs in my hair
torn from a tree in Central Park，
I ride a painted horse， its mane a sullen wonder.
You are behind me on a lilting mare.
You whisper——What of happiness？
Dukham， Federico. Smoke fills my eyes.
Young， I was raised to a sorrow song
short fires and stubble on a monsoon coast.
The leaves in your cap are very green.
The eyes of your mare never close.
Somewhere you wrote： Despedida.
If I die leave the balcony open！