At 2:04 P.M. I witnessed a cloud form.

By 2:05, it was gone. Were I to recall the circumstances under which I saw that cloud
Then I would recall my reasons for leaving
And yet a part of me still lives here (you want to know which part)
And whether or not this part can speak about the present.

What does this composition tell you about the history of colonialism?
About beauty, sightseeing, and the conventions of creating
a place for the purposes of leisure and relaxation. Exotic adventure.
Or one’s diasporic identification with, and attachment to loss.

In my dream about Felix Gonzalez-Torres, I say, “This is not about representation.”
(Then what is it about?)

The one car is a Ford Maverick (year unknown). The red, a Chevy.
What do these details tell you, if anything, about a place?
Or my emotional state;
Today, somewhere between a clinical depression and a tropical depression.

Despondent to have realized the words I write are not the ones you will read.

As one of the postcards from Ponce states: “Temp 83º.”
“Warm and breezy.” Hot and sunny.
If every postcard is a site-specific work
then this is the work that memory does.
And whereas I have the distinct feeling I should recognize this place, I don’t. I can’t.

We remember what we can. Substituting one place for another.
One color for another.
To say nothing of where we came from, and the way we relate to el tiempo, the past.