I was reading an Octavio Paz poem, called Pro-Am. (Ex Dios de Maquina de auto correct, the poet's friend.)
It was about the vertigo on the edge of the cliff, falling
ringing even as the glass shattered.
Falling in the valley of sunset Verbena at the Botanic garden. Some call it Latana.
When I overheard the ladies of the bench talking:
"You don't talk to her?" No reply.
"She doesn't even hold the door open for me anymore." No reply.