In winter, heat first arrives as a vertical wish.
Somewhere deep in a park
inside the nowhere between
night and morning
shadows wave on barely audible ground
and from behind a fence
the smell of paraffin
awakens the iron of other stars
older than death and touch-a-two-skins.
There is a pressing – projecting.
Comes cover and it is coldest
before dawn. My mouth sings to itself.
The wind is joyless.
I will sleep under the grass
and in the morning I will
create a new calendar
to make sure I live a full century.
Tomorrow there will be flowers
and a few summers worth
of drinking.
Ariel Riveros Pavez 
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