Somewhere in Patagonia, to the lonely panic

of the pedestrian lights

an old woman with a wooden axe

carries a cart, vacant as dreams.

At the corner shop, peeling skin

with one eye, she stops

three legs perched on something terrible.

It is barely noise.

Market day. The bus arrives on foot.

Then comes the mill, shrieking,

its windows boarded

as if empty. Dawn.

The people are stuffed with tumbleweed.

The dogs are still dogs—

some alone, others in taxis

their backpacks

ajar for viewing.

Traffic lights litter.

Passengers bring props.

The closed storefronts cross the road

greeting each other silently

like strangers standing

before the raw wind.

An old man grows sturdy

like absence. A kitten

departs like evening.