¿Conversa el humo con las nubes?—Pablo Neruda
What do clouds say? In Brooklyn, I finish my
avocado toast just as Pablo N. puts this smoky
thought in front of my lips. All that my
stomach wants is in and through my throat, so now
brain and spirit clamor hungrily for a philosophical
nip.
I want to talk to clouds, but I don’t know any.
I can’t tilt my ch…
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