viernes, 26 de diciembre de 2008

Cuatro Vientos

3 comentarios:

  1. Cuatro Vientos

    No winds blow here today.
    There is nothing moving
    save what I move for you.

    Not the burnt brown scrub or the prickled bush
    Not the ridged orange dust by parked car tyres.
    Not the chemist’s once hopeful silver squares,

    balled tissues measuring this week’s love.
    Only the dirty door as it opens, clicks shut.
    Grass blades crack under stumbling boots.

    Wet tongue creaks on open lips.
    If I turn my head maybe the ends
    of your mouth crease behind the lens.

    Bitten fingers lift layer after layer,
    (surprising white meets waiting air)
    pull petals from a yellow flower.

    Discarded glass shows gold-spun skies,
    starry seas. And then we are joined
    in the crushing of ants and dreams…

    A plane circles in the blue.
    A bike goes round the bend.
    A parked car revs and rolls.

    Between bike and car there is time;
    for brick to coldly scratch breasts,
    for chains to clink on slatted fence,

    for rope to redden wrists.
    There is time for throats
    to open out in birdsong.

    Four hearts blindly gripped.
    Four hands, more faces, crowd
    numbered days behind all this.

    But there are only you and me
    to be sure that the horse walked
    blackly by, whinnying at your whip.


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