Sergio Ortiz


Sitting on a terrace chair
the breeze moves ornaments
that clash
with his clean nails
and restless legs.
His robe, a bird print.

The cigar
creates anticipation
of another nude,
but the scene lengthens
music drips
and his eyes are
abyssed sunsets.

There is a certain
in his eyes.


They’re always distant
Jets wanting to take off
or in the middle of a flight to
I do not know what night.
Perhaps escaping the fear of the wanderer
waiting leaves them suspended
on a pew in the clouds.
I search the map of my life
in the flight log,
but airports are far away
with the winds, and the moon.

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