Mario Duarte·PoetryIn FargoShareThe river likes to flood the city— licking facades, tasting the marrow of buildings, concrete surfaces swallowing streets, sidewalks.And you, dry as an arroyo, you wait at your hotel desk, counting raindrops, wavering with your inverted face elongating down the window panes.Beyond: a semi-truck, a white buffalo gallops across the wind-flaying highway. He stops for stares, bellows, and us, nostrils flaring, eyes bloody.Will the stars rain again? Why not? They will carve a treaty on his hide. What conditions can we expect? Nothing less than butchering.We are all drifting down dark rapids, legs floating upside down, head underwater, until the bloated underbelly explodes and everyone is left breathless.