The Lingering Woundpoems by Simon Anton Niño Diego Baena

January 1

The harbor came into view. Yachts
moored where I anointed the water

with a message in a bottle, a poem
floating toward the mouth of the Pacific.

A few gulls stared at my ancient practice
of throwing everything—wide awake,

standing along the passage, downing
six cans of beer, I saw the dead,

with their wintry feet, dragging the stillness
of the grave around us the entire year.
 

 
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