Chacarita
I couldn’t find the farmer’s market — street dead ended at a cemetery before the numbers mounted to pyramids of grapefruit and splayed chard leaves. Roamed among crypts, the shattered windows, padlocks...
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I took the day-old bread – they wanted to toss it out with the orange peels and wet coffee grinds. (Compost is a foreign world with a ghost texture and a muddy leaf-licking reputation.) Maybe I’ll give...
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