And so every moment becomes a form of assignation.
You strip off at night with her
and try to coax from what you are
the things you will never be again
and never understand.
This is not your city.
Give back the words now.
Burning maps inside you is this time,
these days seen by wheat,
these great skies abandoned you cannot reclaim.

Something wonderful and close to miracles
seems to dog you.
The song of the sirens or of mosquitoes
tingling your inner ear.
It’s the call of last things and at the same time
of the unutterably mundane.
The ledge inside each instant,
and the other side of days.
Like those guys who just step out in front of trains
to dispense one afternoon
with the need for limitations.
The vision of a different state.
Her lips mixed with the taste of tangerines,
and the scent of her skin
a few instants after summer rain.

And will she be there when the next moment comes?
You go to meet her always
but if she is not waiting
you meet someone else
who will take you to her.
Restless, restless as the sea.
Squawking and lumbering like Galapagos,
a pointless, steadfast desolation.
Your fear of islands.
Rocks which float
with a weight of butterflies.
No end but constant motion,
no sleep to put your dreams.
The mystery of things rendered silent by distance,
all that was left behind when you walked away.
She leaves you with this.
Snowfall on the volcano’s rim.
Restless, restless as the sea.
And, as the sea, unmoving.

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