by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Planes sound like they’re falling. The sun feels like it’s coming down. The wet rain doesn’t fall and we need rain more than anything. Our hearts feel like they’re falling. Floods of tears are coming down. The skirts of lovers are not falling. The wounded legs of walkers are limping in the streets. The falling walkers are hurting. The blood keeps falling like rain. Worn mattresses fall from trucks. The east side sky is falling. It is falling on our heads. It falls on us as we walk up and down streets and avenues. The night appears to be falling. The earth is falling apart. I am falling for the lips of the woman inside my dreams.