All corners are naked.
All words are naked.
In Córdoba there is a corner where the men piss
When beer has bloated their bellies,
Groaning with relief,
Eyes half open.

There is also a corner like this in Lisbon,
Even the wind that blows in from the Tagus
Cannot clean it out.
I have stood watching,
Surprised at the nakedness of that corner.

From a balcony there was a cry: ‘What is it?
Young man, that corner is very special.
Five deaths every year! Take a good look,
And go on home.
Go on home.'
The woman hawked and spat with force.
And I, while I made myself scarce,
Was amazed at the nakedness of that corner.