we stand
at the scrub board
of a laundry sink filled
with soaking sheets
strangely moving,
close-cropped images
banal becoming eloquent
the tension between
the baroque folds of crumpled
white cloth
the geometry of the unremarkable
the transparent plane
of the water's surface
transforming the space
in another dimension
we stand and watch
in Spain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem