[To return to the suspended project of posting items from my extensive back catalogue of creative writing, here is a piece from 1998. Around this time, the tone of my poems took a much more somber turn. This short piece inspired by the semi-arid region of Northeast Brazil was written shortly after my mother died, at a time when I was feeling increasingly homesick in Brazil. Often minimal, doleful, my poems from this period dwell on drought, the inversion of seasons, nostalgia, a perverse longing for winter. Some foreshadow my later work on urban landscapes.]
Here there are no seasons life is precious and cheap the shrub has no sap most of the dry year the twigs of a million crucifixes against the blue and brown and sun a drop revivifies death waiting patient for occasional life life a sliver of a thing the juazeiro's green fleece prevailing like a local god over this dearth of life. Everything is not water.