In another world
These note scrawlers
Would be poets
And would be reading
Poetry books by the poolside,
But in this place
There are no poets.
The water merely drowns,
Laughter restricts,
The bodies are bones,
The spoken words clothes,
While the pink leaps off the walls
And the palms keep
The more cerebral beats
Of a wind that says too much
To be heard.
No, my spot is in the balcony
Sharing papaya with the ghosts
In the empty chairs,
Saying things
Unspeakable to others,
While the little birds
Quote Octavio Paz:
"Una silaba diafana como el silencio."
We see what is invisible,
The real around which
So many struggle,
La sol, cielo, viento, tierra, arboles
Piedra abismo.
What the wind says
The waves repeat
With perfect intricacy,
What the sun says
To retreating sea
Is transparent.
What are these words
People use,
That barely move faces,
Prompt silence
And a moving away?
It's not the smooth turn of palm,
The reiteration of surf
By the curve of the hill,
The firm indentations in sand.
