You face the scale of the days, and beneath this harsh gravity arrives to your dreams the fragrance of the tempered sea foam seething against the car window—a rest, the breath you yearn for—, and to that swarm of magic you can only respond wielding your old Pentax, as classic as yourself, and memorizing words to write down on your carnet de voyage. Summer —its breeze on the arm, its tongue of warm over the face— it opens everlastingly before your gaze, in need of air.
Published in «Visual Poetry Journal» #8, Oct 2025
enrique gavilán 