THIS IS WHERE WE ARE

There are voices we cannot hear.

Even after many struggles,

the air would not hold the words.

 

The transmission of what is

inside, is only the breath

 

we cannot keep. The air

seems stunned

 

by dispossessions, doubts.

 

We tend to feel excluded

from friends and enemies;

the necessities are redefined

 

by blank spaces, possible

blessings from unknown deities.

 

There is waiting everywhere.

 

And, while we wait, ready for

centuries, something tells me

we might as well wait until

 

Apocalypse. Needs are few,

absorbed by strange entities.

 

BEING FREE

for Minu

It is the end of a need

for an endless

hectic count

 

of minutes and hours,

of blind, worthless

commitments.

 

A long sleep, a time

to think whether to

lie in bed for another

 

hour or two, or

through the whole day.

A drink of fresh

 

buttermilk or juice

of watermelon. A glass,

several glasses.

 

A forgetfulness that

never tires, but turns into

stories of its own.

 

Watching the trees

and hills for as long as

you feel like surrendering.

 

A love of your children until

the end of all your needs,

look after their necessities.

 

A late lunch, a long

siesta which impinges on

the first hours of the night.

 

A talk with your lover

that stretches out

to the farthest galaxies.

 

DAILY

It is the way you talk, with

all the pauses, gestures, the risks

you take, your fine inventions;

the way you open yourself out.

 

Each has to say something clear about

yourself, the heart that may not

take anything more, the mind that

always halts in mid-sentence, has fears.

 

The questions arise at every step.

even inside dreams, the answers

that always live far away, too far

from what you understand, can take.

 

It’s the half-constructed house on the sea

for which you paid impulsively, the money

you’ve deposited for your grandchild,

without ever looking at the right papers.

 

It’s always the future, tomorrow that

puts you against possible defeats, locates

the place of your long sleep, arrives

without notice, the way it indeed is.

 

CARRYING THE BODY

The body is too drawn back

to its own pains to make the flight

 

to another sky, too preoccupied

with every possible future event

 

to think of its own past, the modest

visits to places it liked so much.

 

This was a long time ago,

and it has forgotten how free

 

the flights were, despite

its migraines. Now the mind thinks

 

its influences subdued under

the body’s pressures, the conditions

 

of middle age, its denial of all

those things it saw fulfilled

 

by dreams, even fantasies.

Now the slow boat of wishes

 

drops its anchor at too familiar

ports, its weight unbearable, its

 

pace only too slow to reach

another dream-place.