Grave by grave along the coast,
what were robust vineyards,
orchard blankets,
and “massage parlors.”

The guts of those swarming mosquitos,
full of people who moved from the countryside,
vile of flavor.

They’re resistant to wind, dust, snow,
and salty soils.
They see storms, lightening, zones of clouds,
in February’s exhausting cold.

“But I can’t do anything” to
douse the feeling of fire,
can’t forget the early humiliations.

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