80 H.P.

Avenues of autumn pass by
beneath balconies faded by music,
and the garden is like a red glimmer
between the bourgeois applause of architectures.

Street corners fluttering with westerlies.

            At times
            the succinct automobile
            has mineral
            affections.


            For the interfering friend
            committed to perilous turns;

here’s her tightrope-walker smile,
her boreal locks,
and above all, the countryside,
scattered with caresses.

Lands of the parasol
                              Latin
                              new
          —exclusive
                              world
          spectacle—
                              of her eyes.

In the motor             there is the same song.

(Heart tight like a fist)

Sometimes gusts go by, crumpled landscapes,

          and at times
          the road is narrow as a dream.

  Between her fingers
  the compass
  rose
  loses its petals.

Tourist trees
intermittently
return with evening.
They fade
remaining

behind
the outskirts

of reminiscence

          —O happy mutiny of her whiteness!—

Tacubaya,             San Ángel,             Mixcoac.

Little sectors of music.

Afterward
only meadows             of time

There, far away,
                        legions
                                  of night
                                              await us.