There Was No Plot
![A photograph of a door in a pink wall through which we can see another doorway that opens into an orange room](https://www.worldliteraturetoday.org/sites/default/files/2019/autumn/bracho-doorway-analuisa-gamboa-unsplash.jpg)
There were neither plots nor characters,
only places. Neighborhoods sliced
in half. Terraces and corridors
between roofless rooms. Profiles only.
Staggered
spaces. Far off a group
was sucked up
into its own restlessness: the after-dinner
conversation, the waiting, shuffle between
one door and another, shifts
in posture; remarks that from here,
where you hurried to leave,
were already beyond hearing.
Translation from the Spanish