Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

 

Dictum: After great distances oleander and rose. The rubble of earth’s other air—where the hummingbird flies in the shadow of the hawk. And through each wall, the opening earth of August, like a stone that cracks this wall of sun. Mountains. And then the lights of the town beyond the mountain. The town that lies on the other side of light. We dream that we do not dream. We wake in the hours of sleep and sleep through the silence that stands over us. Summer keeps its promise by breaking it.

Paul Auster.

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

Dictum: After great distances oleander and rose. The rubble of earth’s other air—where the hummingbird flies in the shadow of the hawk. And through each wall, the opening earth of August, like a stone that cracks this wall of sun. Mountains. And then the lights of the town beyond the mountain. The town that lies on the other side of light. We dream that we do not dream. We wake in the hours of sleep and sleep through the silence that stands over us. Summer keeps its promise by breaking it.

Paul Auster.

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

           SCRIBE

The name

never left his lips: he talked himself

into another body: he found his room again

in Babel.

It was written.

A flower

falls from his eye

and blooms in a stranger’s mouth.

A swallow

rhymes with hunger

and cannot leave its egg.

He invents

the orphan in tatters,

he will hold

a small black flag

riddled with winter.

It is spring,

and below his window

he hears a hundred white stones

turn to raging phlox.

Paul Auster.

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

        MATRIX AND DREAM

Inaudible things, chipped

nightly away:

breath, underground

through winter: well-words

down the quarried light

of lullaby rill

and chasm.

You pass.

Between fear and memory,

the agate

of your footfall turns

crimson

in the dust of childhood.

Thirst: and coma: and leaf—

from the gaps

of the no longer known: the unsigned message,

buried in my body.

The white linen

hanging on the line. The wormwood

crushed

in the field.

The smell of mint

from the ruin.

Paul Auster

Y EL ÓBOLO BAJO LA LENGUA

STILL LIFE

Snowfall. And in the nethermost

lode of whiteness,

a memory

that adds your steps

to the lost.

Endlessly,

I would have walked with you.

Paul Auster