Not the End
Sheets of paper come to an end, the tree leaves too.
He wants to put an end too. He can’t. Flocks of birds
come and perch on the tree’s leafless branches;
they perch for a while, they resemble ripened, winged fruit;
the only thing he knows is that they fly away again.
This sensation of flight shivers endlessly on the side
of his shoulders, like roots of two invisible wings.
First Dampness
A little moist in the garden chairs at the end of the evening;
they’ll pull the oars out of the boat; the lamp and the flag
of the Customs Office will be left alone. The jetty, already
dark and long, extends into infinity like an empty hand
that doesn’t know what to ask. A star will appear later
to excuse those who forgot their sandals on the shore
a few days ago.
Libros Libertad 