Yesterday Was Thursday. So Is Today.
Yesterday was Thursday. So is today.
The same leaf from the acacia in the same position and in the same spot.
The traffic, the commercials, the cranes . . . The same gestures and the same messages in the mail.
The noises are no different, and light falls on objects with identical velocity.
I know what’s going to happen, and what anyone I listen to will say.
All the murmurs, too, the voice that stands out from the background, the candle behind the curtain.
There they are: the black cats in the puddles on Limón Street.
I know what’s going to happen at 11:10, who dies in the hospital and who misses the flight home.
They will never return.
You are there, with the same clothes, the same fears.
You will understand, I suppose, that I can’t change even one letter of this poem.
Day of Scents and Words, Almost*
* This poem can only be read in an empty hall. When the reading is finished, upon turning off the lights and closing the door, a gentle breathing will be heard. The poem remains on the table. The darkness listens and seeks its place. This is how the meeting, not the meaning, is produced. At eight in the morning two men enter the room. It smells of fresh coffee and bleach. From a nearby radio the people of Madrid are informed of the first inclement days of February.
Elia asks me for a poem
That day I wrote on an eggshell: