Poetry books
Essay
The station
to the sun, the sun appears and resounds
in an almost summer, almost certain warmth.
bite a drop of water. is it time?
the skin is our only barometer.
to talk about time, like Wilde says, is to talk about something else.
it’s a window on uncertainty.
when seeing becomes like consulting a prophet
or looking at a price list
living will lose its constant in this shallow abyss.
in affection we evaporate into oblivion and
with our laughter we become the elements –
when silenced a hail falls freezing all predictions,
then the world must stop and be rethought.
we are the sky’s agriculture, the air’s wide grain,
pollen blowing in from a distant city.
every fight among equals, every love between opposites,
every intimate argument has been foreseen
in the sugared tension of our earthly food,
in the grain of wheat that yellows and bursts in the machine.
the listless turning of the stars hypnotizes life,
the toll gate at the station, the voltage of repetition.
the hour and its exterior confuse us.
if there were no light like this light,
if there were no questions in our eyes,
if there weren’t an instant of sleeplessness just before sleep
everything would simply be a documentation.
we are the food of terror.
and an illusion of eternity
we just make out when we lose ourselves.
a light is born
with the precise dimensions of the universe.
the calendar doesn’t have to say the last word.
Infinity will always be lacking for that which doesn’t exist,
which is exactly the place we inhabit.
(From Para lo que no existe, 1999)