June already， it's your birth month，

    nine months since the towers fell.

    I set olive twigs¹ in my hair

    torn from a tree in Central Park，

    I ride a painted horse， its mane a sullen² wonder.

    You are behind me on a lilting mare³.

    You whisper——What of happiness？

    Dukham， Federico. Smoke fills my eyes.

    Young， I was raised to a sorrow song

    short fires and stubble on a monsoon⁴ coast.

    The leaves in your cap are very green.

    The eyes of your mare never close.

    Somewhere you wrote： Despedida.

    If I die leave the balcony open！