Two Poems



From “Memorias del tiempo nuevo” (“Memoirs of the new time”)


To touch the face

The blindness of your grandfather
Travels through your face
To remember you
The tension in the lines of your frown
The tightness in your lips
Trying not to say
What he knows himself that he has
So little time these are the last few times
He can come close to you
To remember you in the only way
That he knows now he builds the world
Touching it finding in its texture
All the paths but now he stumbles
With the folds of your eyebrows
With the strength with which you‘ve tighten up
Yourself to stop crying

You touch his face
You can see him but you outline the shape
Of his face with the back of your hand
Because you want to keep him with you
In every possible way the patterns
Of the last times that you are close
To your grandfather he will die
The next morning
He will leave

A warm air between the world and your hand


Super 8

There is beneath the quality of the image
Something deeper than the light strokes
That you look now trying to find yourself
In the contrast of the face of that child and the little
That remains of the viewer that you are
You see the sequence of pictures
Slow enough to notice the spaces the holes
That you have forced yourself to forget
As well as the coordinates of a house
That appears in the background of the image
With white walls worn out
By the sun and water and time
Pictures slow images
That harbor the darkness between each memory
But not enough not as slow quite so slow
To save the remnants
Of the continuum of what you have seen
Of what you have been the camera
It is too quick to save
The familiar voices the din
Of being absently happy worthy
And cheerful in such a fast time
As for not being able to remember
The distance between the image
And the image and that
Which you have become
In that way
In Super 8



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