An ailing man weeps in the October sky.
I am somewhere else, again.
The world is not an open field.
I watch what was extracted
from estates and enterprises of the Indies.
It was foolish to claim a route in a kingdom
when monarchy is a dead end
for me, for walking in a manner without title and surnames.
After the Dutch dance, I returned to the hotel.
The receptionist at the front desk touched my right hand.
Shifts turned to air, she was eager
to guide me through the city’s cobbled streets
under the guise of hospitality and logistics.
I declined.
Too much at peace
with the solid ground of gold on my left hand
and the distance I write in my diary, drained,
but no less fixed on my world
of despair, hurricanes and light tomorrow.