A book is also whatever else.

Even days that never arrived.

Even graves.

I say “even” as a synonym of “including”

but also to venture somewhere   

“even farther.” 

This photograph, too, can be at least the end

of a book. It wasn’t intentional, but so it is.

Like the scarecrow’s eye

that could see, only as it was being painted. 

Arbitrary light blinks from the highest cross.

Let’s call it Pedro’s grave. 

And let's say that the one behind it belongs to Charlie.

There's no need to send flowers,

here there are, unceasingly, wild daisies.

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