A soft, slow smell rises up from the field, the smell of bread, of Mass, of Friday. After the rain, idleness climbs the agaves and the fennel stalks bend under the unbearable weight of their own perfume. Wounds are so tender that reality hides underground, as frightened and retractable as a snail.
Translated from the Catalan by Sharon Dolin
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.