In the daylight there were
small whimpers made by the African cat

An over-large pot of geraniums on the ledge
the curtains part
a view from Kandinsky’s window.

I am living in the Siberia 
of your rose 
there is a family of us 

Should the painful condition of irreversible paralysis 
last longer than forever or at least until 

are not comfortable beside mine. On the bus,
pulled forward by gentle inertia,
a hundred of us sway, or sigh, is that it,
what we do in the moment, in that air
that is too cool. Listen,
I want to say to you, dear heart,
imperfect flesh, blue eyes,
abused elbow and plaintive knees—
listen, I want to breathe in
the world that is falling apart.
I am too old to learn
your name in any language
other than this one. I am

One may wish to slaughter or to save the bull—but first one must master the cape. With the politics I differ; for the man I feel nothing but love. Without him I might never have been a poet. His esthetic discoveries were powerful enough to enable me to dispute with him to the death in an arena where the combat is eternal: the arena of poetry.

Juan Garcia

*

Water, with lidless stare,
Invites a cool surmise,
Holds there his curious eyes,

The ice plant is not in flower:
it extends, a springy floor

over the rocks and the sand

The traveler struggles through a wood. He is lost.
The traveler is at home. He never left.
He seeks his way on the conflicting trails,

Look, in the attic, the unentered room,
A naked boy leans on the outspread knees
Of his tall brother lolling in costume,