We put these offerings out
into the blunt nothing of tomorrow,
then wheel about and drift off
impatient to gather more
and all our works and amusements
all delights and suffering
lie unclaimed
sliding into yesterdays
they will waste until our bones
are no more than a smear
beneath a rubble
until we and everything
known to our kind
have vaporized and seeded the cosmos
and somewhere the light is lifting
and fragments gather into wholes
Shall we meet on some vacation,
Soaked in summer perspiration
Or put it off till August
When the rains no longer dog us
Or shall I look for you in autumn
Seeking out your soggy bottom
Wrapped in leaves of red and gold
While your ass is growing cold
But not as cold as winter’s blast
Be you ever so steadfast
Will you be on some new caper
Despite the freezing vapor
Or, alas! not until spring
Shall I find you on the wing
Pushed along on some tornado
Nearly halfway to Laredo
Whatever is the season
You choose to fry or freeze in
I hope it’s not too long, my lover
Or soon we’ll have to start all over
Cucurrucucu paloma
Cucurrucucu no llores
–Tomás Méndez
Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry
there is no beginning
and no ending
but one eternal
moment
unblessed, uncursed,
unaware of itself
just like you
at the edge of
consciousness
dreaming of stolen
worlds you never knew
Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry
everything passes
even the passing passes
until only a thing
that might be a memory
elusive, winking in
and out of existence
just like you
remains, or does it?
Don’t cry, Paloma, don’t cry,
it’s only your dream
from which you will
never wake.
Some returned,
some did not.
One had lost an arm
another was blinded.
One could never
walk straight again,
and still another
could only sleep
in splintered dreams.
Among the worst
were those who went
thinking only of
good and noble deeds,
their hearts shattered
beyond repair.
Spring is here
the sun rises early
and scoots across the sky
slowing only for high noon
Spring is here
the hawk patrols his highway
field mice scatter
songbirds bicker in the bushes
Spring is here
something – a flower, a tree –
pushes up through the
loose soil of a grave
Spring is here
exiles child 