A Day

This cloudy sky
with its hidden storm
and foreshadowed rain
is weighing on me;
this still, heavy air
that won't stir
even the light
jasmine leaves
is drowning me;
this waiting
for what doesn't come
tires me.
I would like to be far
away, where no one
knows me, where
I am new, like
fresh grass;
light,
without the weight
of dead days,
free to take
neglected paths
to an open sky.

Prayer

I.
Lord, give me
deep silence,
a heavy veil
over my gaze.
This way I'll be a world
closed off:
a dark island;
I'll dig painfully
as into hard earth.
After the bloodletting,
my life agile and lucid,
the trapped song
will rush freely like
a clear and sounding river.
 

II.
Lord, we're alone.
It's me, facing you,
An impossible dialogue.
Your presence is solemn
Before this reclusive love.
I hear you calling 
But don't know how to answer.
The love you planted
Exists without direction 
Or repercussion, 
A buried seed
Unable to reach
The light of day. 
In my chest, you lit
A somber fire.
Lord, why not 
Burn me up
If the only response 
I have for your love
Is this quiet waiting?

At Times

At times, she feels
like something left behind
in a dark corner of the house,
a fruit sucked dry
by scavenging birds,
a shadow without body, weightless,
a presence that barely stirs the air.
She feels that glances invade her,
that she becomes a kind of fog
in the clumsy arms that embrace her.
She would like to be 
a ripe orange in a child's hand—
instead of a hardening peel—
a bright reflection in the mirror,
instead of a fading shadow—
not heavy silence,
but a clear voice
that someone heard once.

Exile

My life is
displacement, with no return—
a lost childhood, itinerant, 
with no home,
an exile without homeland.
My life sailed
on a ship of nostalgia.
I lived by the side of the sea,
gazing out at the horizon.
I thought of setting out
toward a neglected home
somewhere, but the trip
I imagined led me
to another port of call.
Is love, then,
the only harbor?
—Arms that held me captive
but gave no comfort, a cruel 
embrace I longed to escape from, 
and arms that pulled back,
that I reached for, all for nothing. 
Endless flight, endless longing—
love is no safe harbor.
There is no promised land
for my hopes, only a country
made of ruined desire,
a buried, ancient land
that from far away seems  
a lost kind of paradise.

Nose

It's practically 
an appendage
to the face's 
serene geometry,
the only line
in a field of curves,		
the subtle instrument
that connects me 
to the air.
Simple smells,
acrid ones, 
the dense scents
of jasmine, anise:
flaring, taking 
them all in.

Hair

Sweet serpentine tangles,
the only reeds on the thin 
earth of my body—
a fine wild grass
that grows in step
with springtime,
a shadow wing
against my temples,
a light coat for my neck.
A crest, for this
nostalgia of birds.

Heart

They say it's the size
of a tight fist.
Small, then,
but large enough
to set all this
in motion—
a laborer
who works well,
though he longs for rest,
and an inmate
who waits vaguely
to escape.

Words

I.
A childhood
nursed on silence,
youth built
from departures,
a life that 
produces absence.
It's only from words
that I expect 
a total presence. 


II.
I expect nearly 
everything from words
without even knowing 
what they promise
what they deny me
what lies beyond
their attending echo. 
I don't know whether
they come from my lips
or if someone else
is dictating them 
in a mute language
I will not parse.				 


III.
Do I hide
in words 
to cover 
my nakedness?
Or is it that 
they undress me 
layer by layer, 
until they reach
the last concealing veil.


IV. 
I fear words:
their scratches hurt
the newborn thing. 
I fear they'll wreck
untouched feeling.
This tough rind
of poetry, 
this rough mask
on its lucid face—
oh, but to be able
to turn into music,
and to tear the air
open, effortlessly.



V.
Why do I write?
Because I'm alone
and my own voice
would frighten me?
Because I wake up
from a confusing dream
I don't remember?
Or is it simply because 
I find a blank page
and have a knot
in my throat.


VI.
All my life
in search of words—
suitable ones,
sincere
new
forgotten
clean—
to tell,
without telling,
a secret that hurts you,
to let
the wound bleed,
to let it comfort
for not doing
what can't be done.


VII.
Poets are
usually speaking to someone.
They address the multitude,
bearing a brilliant sword
or holding out a staff.
They sing sweetly 
to men at war,
or tell of dazzling
landscapes that disarm us.
Garlands are cast 
in their path.
But up 
in my hidden nest,
I treat poetry
like witchcraft,
like a secret,
like forbidden fruit.


VIII.
Poetry at night—
almost wordless.
Where does it come from? 
Why does it linger
here,
the night
its indecipherable language.


XIII.
I would like to 
say everything
with just a few 
every-day words,
and would like for 
the act of saying
apple
to make the air vibrate
with fresh colors
tangy flavors
elegant ratios
memories
symbols. 
But do we 
even need the word
if the apple exists?


XV.
It's not the words
that speak:
they say very little,
they deceive.
But maybe now and then 
a hidden voice will 
whisper behind 
the words we know, 					
and take us by surprise.


XVIII.
Perhaps all 
I'd need is 
a single word 
for opening
the window wide,
a keyword,
a key to admit
you into silence.
If I can't find it,
I would rather
remain locked up.


XXVI.
I will not lose
this salt grain
this seed
this spark of sun
this exotic germ
this gold dust
between my fingers
this nostalgia
for what's never been
this hidden shoot
this word that
an unfamiliar hand
is trying 
to write,
this hand, that maybe,
this time, is my own.

Time

Day

I.
I would like some 
release from hope
in the calm pool
of this bit of sun
cupped in my hand.
I would like to live
a single day without
its tomorrow.



II.
Tomorrow
will be better:
a day as yet
untouched by 
shadows, and
with me willing
to accept it whole.



III.
I did not
do what I meant 
to do today,
and this deficit
increases daily.




Night

I.
Is time a forgetting,
or the dim memory
of a story left unfinished?
Is it loss
or is it 
the sediment
not dredged up
by a murky river?
Time warps
its own fabric
to fray itself 
daily; it devours
patiently, consumes
desire, slowly
exhausts all hope.
If someday
you obtain what you
have longed for,
time will already
have worn it out
relentlessly,
and all that will be left
is the disenchanted
meeting between
a dream ravished
by time and something
it's merely weakened.



II.
Time means
waiting for 
an unlikely future 
or for an established 
date that comes and goes
and in turn gives rise 
to more waiting.



III.
You say it's late.
Why?
You say it's late.
For what?
Time isn't
measured by the sun
or taken by the wind.
See how
your hands 
waste it
without thinking.



XI.
We live
in forgetting,
and it's not just 
about keys
a scarf
a letter
a meeting, 
it also means
secrets, and that
the past is 
lost, inadvertently.



XV.
Something
has fallen 
from my hand,
and I don't want
to glance back
to look for signs of 
what I couldn't
hold onto.