RICARDO ALBERTO MALDONADO

Selenography

I never wanted
to wander

under the broken bulb
above the poplars
in the yard.

I discovered
the percussion of the chest:
confused bellows.

A gentleman pauses on the way
to the opera, rambles among

black lemon
trees.
It feels like nothing.

I am a poor walker, tall
with my rifle.

I become obscure.