In some far-off place
as happens
in every story
worthy
of
the telling
they have erected
a monument
to memory
and they build it
with fragile stone
to be able to destroy it
each
day
The many-petaled flower
sleeps on the air
and stirs
We many petals
as we stir
when
the
air
changes
we fall
He felt strong
emaciatedly solid
until it happened:
that
long
instant
of the breaking off
of the first leaf
that
is still
falling
You saw her growing
and she was always growing
It seems that when
her growing stopped
you stopped seeing
There are afternoons
spent drinking coffee
thinking
and on one of them
You write a poem
and on another
you talk
and there are more afternoons
Translated from Spanish by Donald Walsh