Poetry is like a weather report.
The more exact it is,
the happier we are
when awaiting a beautiful day;
the more exact it is,
the sadder we are
thinking ahead to a new, dark day.

There is always a pretty girl on the weather report,
who, smiling,
puts an end to any hope

of heading to the beach for a picnic.

(Cherche la femme
is always
recherche la femme, too)

In the weather report, there are dreams
of New York,
of Puerto Rico,
or even so much as Spain or Egypt.

Poetry is a report of the weather,
a report of the world,
and reports to the world

that we have not given up yet.