are nothing but compadritos
that insult—with naive eloquence—
the necessary, unavoidable diligence
of life: tomorrow, later, then,
as if the sea could wait,
as if that movie could wait,
as if the rain, the bread, the shrewd kiss,
Mozart, Chekhov, Diego's best goals,
the mate, the moon, the diurnal shadow of the linden tree,
tomorrow is late, I don't know if I'm alive, later
it's a long time, I don't know if I can, then
this little thing that chirps in my chest like a sparrow will be a junkyard,
I don't know if I'm here tomorrow, later, then,
it's today, it's now, it's already this sky,
that bird, don't believe it's made of flesh and blood,
everything that exists
is made of time.