If I could live on the vision without trying to say it
What’s real isn’t this thing or that thing
my presents
that you gave away
once they lost the weight and sheen
of being given
and became no more
than fragile objects.
What’s real isn’t our clumsy lies
or the bodies of others
we barely dare to touch.
Nor is it doubt—it can’t be doubt—
nor can it be hatred, fear, fatigue.
My bet is that what’s real
is infinitely beautiful.
There is a false time
set in motion when we fall,
but true time
is the eternity
of one who arises
shaken by a hunch
and sees through the fog.
I am saying words.
If I could live on the vision
without trying to say it.
If I could keep what’s real
from flying
off
then I would keep silent
or I’d remember only the phrases
for water,
rice,
shelter,
and caress.
Silence for you.
Phrases for you.
What’s real is this living calm,
my hummingbird stillness when you appear,
my agitation when you leave
and I find you in the silhouettes of others
and confusedly welcome your return.
What’s real, muchacho, is the joy
the
faith
in
our
encounters.