Sin eso de muelles y aguas que no agotanse

jamás. y esos silencios sin nombre. If at least I knew what happened after they left. Twenty three years ago we still moved around the ship, the docks left unfinished, uncountable splattering of cold plateña water on the hull. Pero sin ganas, sin ningun sonido, waiting for something we knew had never been there.  A faded hope, tantos campeones, otros tangos, y aquellos años involucrandose en bruma.

Left the last water station behind

everything, I wondered in silence, is gonna be alright

y lo vi, hija

y tengo tantos recuerdos..

"Santiago," I called

But that was years ago.
Lo manejaba sin miedo, y adelante;

con tantas ganas, el me dice, con tantas ganas de volver...

Que habían dejado el muelle hace años

They left the quay years ago.
Floating, tied to the dock, weathered and fragile, it stood still. 

Paint gone. the key lock still worked, alright

Despues de tantos tangos

Almacéns y café. Gatos y Cortázar en las mesas

Hacienda

 He used to play guitar on the back.

people, where?

out, in the fields

In the cold

they dance as we sit waiting

Cold outside

["You can sleep while I drive," she said. But that was long before the rain, ages before the streets of buenos aires engulfing our last dollar bills, before the tenor falling from stage at Corrientes, el olor del café y tantas medialunas slowly swallowing her back to the city, a rediscovery of your earlier - and only? - roots, a call desde las calles de San Telmo, and the Rio de la Plata slowly widening between us, then Colonia del Sacramento and all the Uruguayan ranchos, and later the vastitude of Brazil before more water, oceans, and our lost voices.

I slept, baby. I did. And you drove smoothly, nicely. A couple of times I remember vaguely to hear you sing. As you drove. Quietly you sung, I want to believe, all night long..]

"Você pode dormir enquanto eu dirijo," ela disse. Mas isso foi muito antes da chuva, séculos antes das ruas de buenos aires reclamando nossos últimos dólares, antes do tenor cair do palco em Corrientes, el olor delcafé y tantas medialunas lentamente lhe reclamando de volta à cidade, uma redescoberta de suas raízes primeiras - e únicas? - um chamado desde as ruas de San Telmo, e o Rio de la Plata lentamente se alargando entre nós, então Colonia del Sacramento e todos os pampas Uruguaios, depois as vastidões do Brasil antes de mais água, oceanos, e nossas vozes perdidas. 
Eu dormi, baby. Dormi. E você dirigiu suavemente, sem sobresaltos. Em duas ocasiões eu lembro vagamente de te ouvir cantar. Enquanto dirigias. Você cantou calmamente, quero crer, a noite toda..

Time hides behind those glasses

When the lake froze

In 1956 I had opened that door

[We had almost two feet of snow. I spent most of the morning shoveling it out of the uncovered porch and the pathway that led to the cabin. Later in the afternoon, Jemime appeared from across the lake. I could not believe she had made that far. With a book in her hand. Eyes almost impossibly green...]

I had read about Malawi

yet, earlier that day

Imagine rain on an impossibly cold day

 

Chromotherapy - Colored cups

[On a window sill, water-filled colored glasses sit through the day: Violet for meditation, elevation, these subtleties; Blue for words and throat; Green for lungs and heart; Yellow washing liver, intestines, calming anxiety; orange and sex; and finally Red, centered on the sill, more exposed to the sun. Red for the structure of my path. Legs and feet. My armchair, my walking stick, my road diverging in two.]

Broken southeast - gray.

Cracker house, or my grandpa's dwelling covered in ashes

[There is now too much dead foliage and rotten basura donde habito mi abuelo, hace tanto tiempo]

Holliday shadow, or a cold silence on campus