Thursday, April 12, 2007

Tierra Incontrovertible

In this version, I’m dying
for the bucolic white pueblos viejos
que encontré en mis viajes--
In one town I met a cruel woman

who with her mirrors drowned me
into the other world--black oak
trees bundled on the land, silver
maples dropping red packetsof pollen.

Pero, recientamente, en mis sueños,
después de esa película,
tocaba guitarra como un rock star,
y abrí las piernas de una rubia foyable--

I found myself protected in those chasms
where she was a new pebble hidden
by a thousand years of shoes and drums.
A maker of the first earth of mirrors,
I am there, on the run.

So in bed we killed some poems, one at a time,
distilled old wounds from another life
into small, shrill cries. Everything seemed new,
her small brown back in the yellow haze of sun.

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