PHOTO BY KEVIN CARREL FOOTER

It comforts me in this tempestuous world that the altar we erected to your lips that crazed night on the wall in San Telmo has earned respect from the toughest crowd: sloganists and graffiti artists and paid political posterers have carefully skirted your lips, awed by their succulence. The building behind crumbles; it’s lovely railings and balconies would collapse — I think — under even a butterfly’s weight. Neglect has wrestled ornaments and color from those walls. Posters of the political passions of the moment are wheat-pasted one upon the other, a crusty sandwich of forgotten saviors.

But your lips remain, unblemished and conjuring. Those whimsical protrusions that ripple your surface have outlived all the lesser passions. Late-night walkers, chasing their skittish dreams, instead find you.

Sign up to get The Sunday Morning Muse delivered by email each week: https://www.kevincarrelfooter.com/signup/