The dust on his boots
a fine amalgam,
his wrinkles
an atlas
strewn with crosses.

He smells
of sunsets.

Where quetzals nest
he sings the songs
of ortolans,
spermiferous whales.

Leaves stroke
his cheeks.

He knows
the wind's indifference,
the cold hearths
of poverty.

Brine washes
in his eyes.

The moon
makes his shadow
sharp as ice,
on his journey
to the home of night.

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