For days now, geckos and lizards 
have slid up and down the walls,
not only at dusk. The air smells
of burnt rice, boiled green shoots.
When the sun comes out, it tints
small portraits through any surface
with holes. Therefore my children
are offended when I talk of having
the sense of running out of time.
If only the light could carve
amulets on my arms, on my body.
If only words were not fevers.

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