There will come a day
when we won’t need to push on the panes for them to fall,
nor hammer the nails for them to hold,
nor walk on the stones to keep them quiet,
nor drink the faces of women for them to smile.

It will be the beginning of the great union.
Even God will learn how to talk,
and the air and light
will enter their cave of shy eternities.

Then there’ll be no more difference between your eyes and your belly,
nor between my words and my mouth.
The stones will be like your breasts
and I will make my verses with my hands
so that nobody can be mistaken.


Sometimes the walls of sleep
lie down in the breast
and suddenly one sees
that sleep is a love that has lost its way,
a form of love that has remained unattached.
And it’s no use trying to gather it in,
even by loving in sleep,
because love, when it passes,
becomes free of us,
as the wind becomes free of the tree.
Becomes free of us, and surrounds itself with walls.


A man spells out his tiredness.
All at once as he spells
he meets some strange capital letters,
unexpectedly alone,
unexpectedly tall.
They weigh more on the tongue.
They weigh more but they get away
faster and hardly
can they be spoken.
His heart crowds into the roads
where death is exploding.
And he meets, as he goes on spelling,
bigger and bigger capital letters.
And a great fear chokes him
of finding a word
written all in capitals
and not being able to pronounce it.

This Issue

November 29, 1973