To then put on one’s coat and to walk out the door, alive.Read More
Words travel through pitch-dark centuries
to touch my recalcitrant body.
Weather several ice age age.
Hunt them ibex. Fish them bream.
Pencil hiss hour. // Hour of crinkled paper.
I thought of what closely followed,
what had left me at its door.
My language is a Bedouin thief, /
delighting in foreign sands;
Ai Limón, your name in my mouth
on my tongue and tongues of all