Each day you go into the carnage, to find
whatever will calm your
sense of losing whatever has gone,
………………………………………………………………….what,
not the effect but the cause
mediated or mobile, not a knot or a nut
from the spoils, but that which flees, that
does not think about itself or understand
what is not there, what is what
that lacks that and leaves, searches
for whatever thing, whatever
nothing that nourishes, even if that nothing
is no more than the closing of a hand or the look
that witnesses the hollow form in the palm
and does not fill itself up
___________________________________
With a light knapsack, nearly ancient,
features almost Asian, with a certain
fragility of bone and a frugality
that feeds her. A small, yet rapid step toward
the train station, a final
image in gray drizzle.
A story and its voice–my old friend
lived alone here for years
without anyone to talk with, from her house
to work, from his death,
from work to the house, she lived alone
here–. Hands trembling,
throat fragile, life pondered.
Stuffed tomatoes, salad
and rice, a silver ring–traveling
artist–came from her, hop,
hip salute of farewell, the knowing.
___________________________________
Deaf and blind, they make music–a lyre,
a flute–. Beautiful and bald. Daughters,
in laps or nearby, tiny. Without eyes
ears or hair. Neither stupid nor cruel,
they look after the world, live for the sharp
edge, and the little ones grow; airy and
graceful. Not far away, others labor, run
and fly about with torches and set
fires in the night. Meanwhile, they, attentive,
remain at attention, they make music.
___________________________________
Black, they have sprouted from nothing, swallow
and cockroach come from the night,
darkened keratin and burning,
back with the rush of sun,
with the joy of March, almost
warm. Black and airy,
they return
and run riot.
___________________________________
the animals are moving around, the mouse,
for instance, from up above to below,
through the grape arbor and the jasmine
toward hollows in the thick
stone wall,
………………. stealth-moves
overhead, he with his slender body and long
tail (and, where there is one, there is), first
inhabitant together with the snake and others
___________________________________
Melancholy, rage, tips
of the boomerang, from an attack
that reverts to flesh, beneath
the claw, the gnawing. A dream in counterpoint
suggests another level, removing
anger or the sense of being without defense.
In the dream, finding a self
and it wasn’t specifically, rightfully me,
a black line, a margin, and then
a warm coloring of savory
joy, the eye’s light. The poem went
there, where without wanting to,
it reaches a gentle place, fight
or flight, tames the humors.
___________________________________
in my house I hide myself in case someone
might want to see me that may not see me
I hide myself in the now
that is December with the light
put out
…………………….(are you
the one who calls to misfortune?
–misfortune, come, –is it you?)
animal stench from the lair
where cold where
walls and ragged
black chance
___________________________________
The dense platform of fever
leaves bones flat, plates
of bone weigh heavy
without their joints. It used to go
to the kitchen. For those white
serving dishes they tied on an apron
of tomatoes split wide open.
___________________________________
as if we all
were dead right now,
dressed or padded up for a film,
seen from a distance,
……………………………….so
unbelievable and necessary, like that,
like getting dressed
and sitting down
in a chair,
……………….except perhaps
an old shepherd who went
to hear from the back, only
to sit down and listen
to some voice speak
___________________________________
“this is 91, this is 9, what number do you want to find?”
“get out of here, Guadalupe”
“tell her all other numbers are taken”
together we catch the night boat, lost
you follow, lost I watch whatever
prowls around, Amazon without an arrow,
unwilling and frightened, silent
with your frown, you, and the urge
to walk and to walk with your small,
colt steps
___________________________________
if you let me go with you into the night,
in the dark hour of the metro, before
dawn, if I could take in,
contemplate every bone in your face, the look
of the wild animal that thinks and lives alone, if
the angry words did not go away,
if I did not feel the wind whip the
trees above; what I did I don’t
remember, what they did, where
life happens and is free and not
benign, where with its wound
the animal on its own