Translated by Chris Andrews
Many years ago I had a friend called Jim, and he was the saddest North American I’ve ever come across. I’ve seen a lot of desperate men. But never one as sad as Jim. Once he went to Peru—supposedly for more than six months, but it wasn’t long before I saw him again. The Mexican street kids used to ask him, What’s poetry made of, Jim? Listening to them, Jim would stare at the clouds, and then he’d start throwing up.
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