it may be the other side that vanishes
first.
standing in the back yard smoking a
cigerrette.
a car passes by first the engine then the
lights.
the faint hum of deisel and carbon are
left.
so i exhale once more.
should i speak of memories?
the clouds passing overhead.
i remember all those early fall days
the leaves having brought themselves
down to their knees.
what comes next the hip or thigh,
possibly the wrist?
shall i speak of winters joints?
that leaky fossil that sheds
half its sinews continually.
such a beautiful arched ceiling,
with heavy rain soaked lungs.
now i am as a cistern in carthage
kept in remembrance by very cold ancient
stones overhead.
i cannot speak by i may listen.
it is the vapor as i exhale that
dissapears last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I just read BACKYARD twice and enjoyed it 4 times as much on the second reading. I'm going to come back it tomorrow and on my third reading enjoy it 5 1/2 times as much. It's too late for me to continue now, but I want to read many of your poems. I applaud your verbal dexterity. Words as you use them will never get old and stale. I just read a blurb on this page that Garcia Marquez died. A great writer, and great man... but he and Octavio Paz were bitter enemies, quarreled publicly. I revere Paz as a poet and critic. I'm reading SUNSTONE again.