At times I think desolately

That it is on life itself

On its clean page

that the blot of death is spilt

But I look down there

at the recently tipped freshness

resplendent in the frugal morning bowl

For the nervously cheerful dogs

Which in my stead and in my name

Frolic about

So exhibitionistically alive

And I know there are still things

That I have to learn how to put in their place.


The only thing that I’ve always known how to do well

Is not to do

Is not to move a muscle

Let the tongue be still

Take great care not to go and make a noise

From which a gongorismo might slip out

Remain motionless so as not to get in the way

And let something which is inevitably going to be said

Swell up growing richer and more impatient

And in the end burst bringing forth

Excitingly but not frighteningly

And of course silently

An undeniable explosion of light.


What I would like to do is climb up to the branches

And without anyone noticing

Get in among the smallest leaves

To eavesdrop on what they are saying

Among themselves so secretly

And take it home with me in my memory

To say it to myself then

With mischievous but not malicious intent.


In the distance the night mutters its storm

That proliferation of faint flashes

And that muffled threshing of thunder

Are visibly plotting to reach us

The storm gallops towards us

In dreamlike slow motion

And perhaps it loses heart before arriving

But who can deny that if it reaches us

That while its impulsive embrace lasts

It is itself a great house

With room for all our houses.