My eyes are suture closed.
I walk in a street
with no names and no windows.
The trill of a penny whistle
twists my neck.
A voice that does not know
.
who to call
rises in my throat.
Each word
is a single
stubborn letter.
They form a wind
that sounds
through invisible strings.
Dark within dark.
Night is at a crossroads
fleeing over the horizon.
My neighbour takes his road
stepping on stones
across a stream.
He is saying goodbye
in another country:
an unreliable map
and an old passport.
I remember old times
when the world was new,
opaque, awake.
The vision is gone,
nothing to lose;
pleasure will come.
My own witness,
I take my road
never knowing how.
.
Testigo
.
La noche está en una encrucijada
que huye por encima del horizonte.
Mi vecino toma su camino
pisando las piedras
a través del arroyo.
Él está diciendo adiós
en otro país:
un mapa poco fidedigno
y un pasaporte viejo.
Yo recuerdo los viejos tiempos,
cuando el mundo estaba nuevo,
opaco, despierto.
La visión se ha ido,
no hay nada que perder,
el placer vendrá.
Soy mi propio testigo,
tomo mi camino
sin saber nunca cómo.
This district foots the iron hill
where sparks of forge dissolve in showers.
Fly-presses, lathes and furnaces;
and wrenches hung in families.
.
Where fading cars disintegrate
in cemeteries of almond shade.
All doors, unhinged, are propped in rows
like filing cards in matching sets.
Wind-fallen figs lie squashed by tyres
in sticky jams; inside the wire
the shrivelled fruits lie leather dry
in carcasses to house the worms.
Love statements etched on whitewashed walls
are testament to fires in hearts.
In halls behind an iron gate,
evangelists seek Jesus’ flame.
La Colina de Hierro
.
Este distrito al fondo de la colina de hierro
chispas de forjas se disuelven en chubascos.
Yunques, tornos y fraguas;
herramientas ancladas en tradición familiar.
Coches desgastados se desintegran
en cementerios con sombra de almendros.
Las puertas, sin bisagras, apoyadas en filas,
como conjuntos de cartas del mismo palo.
Higos caídos con el viento yacen aplastados
por neumáticos en pegajosas mermeladas;
tras la alambrada fruta marchita como cuero,
ahora un caparazón que alberga a los gusanos.
Declaraciones de amor grabadas en muros de cal,
testamentos al fuego de corazones de juventud.
En vestíbulos detrás de puertas de hierro,
evangelistas persiguen la llama de Jesús.
thaw
the snowman wears his heart
His head is buried
in Aldous Huxley;
his feet are buried
in twelve buckle leather boots.
Huxley is open
at page 23;
his right boot is open
from toe to instep.
Huxley in paperback;
sole in loose-leaf.
there is nothing wrong with small lakes
Upside Down Café, Third Quarter:
garlic melba toast crackles,
iced jasmine tea trickles.
Ceiling fans tangle her hair
to her frenzied delight.
Trailing ivy baskets swing
to the beat of Springsteen.
A wall is splashed turquoise
by Aaron Kingsman’s drapes:
an exhibition of “Origins”.
Mimi of the Café
is in chocolate daydream,
her cheek a split of froth.
Shelves are frayed litters:
Great Quotes from Great Women
Long Stays in
and more literary successes.
An amber-held candle
has flickered out
in a vermilion quarry.
Two empty sofas entice,
torn stuffings hold mementoes
of rhythm, brush and pen:
independent declarations.
She eyes to me:
“Curl up and sleep”.
in its branches
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