In Wyoming, in Nebraska They had a map without without cities or towns or villages did they feel panic they didn't feel panicky but the fact of one day sometimes, for the sufferings to escape Where had they drawn their multitude of perceptions from they could not, when they looked at a face, arrange the parts of the face what was banging on the papier-mâché bark carton stone of the trees? He had managed to put on the blue shoes he would take them off he would put them on i was looking at them i could smell them the image is decomposing with Elephantine memory they were remembered all the migratory routes traveled, every detail of the place, every particular feature, attached to the smell at sight ¿how will the wolves of dreams sing these kinds of songs of the memories? In Kansas City they had sat in a fallen tree trunk tidy on inhospitable ground waiting

By Carlos del Puente