The vague fog flows from the sea toward the streets
like the steam-breath of cattle buried in the cold,
and long tongues of water gather, covering the month
that our lives had been promised would be heavenly.
Autumn on the march, whistling honeycomb of leaves,
when your standards fly over our towns
crazy women sing good-bye to the rivers,
horses whinny toward Patagonia.
On your face is an evening vine,
climbing silently, that love lifts
up toward the crackling horseshoes of the sky.
I bend toward the fire of your nocturnal body, and I love
not only your breasts but autumn, too, as it spreads
its ultramarine blood through the fog.