Furtive, secretly, undercover, because poetry cannot be compiled in any other way than against the current of the brutal prose carried away by the vertigo of the self-destructive speed of the current “liquid world.” This improbable Harvest is spread out on the table, only the silhouette of a fruit, of a hand, waiting for the gaze that, for its own challenge, recreates the pulp, flavor and aroma, if anything remains of the sketch. it.