We are the lucky ones
standing here on dry ground, this
autumn Saturday, this Plaza Real
in a reeling world. These are days
welded together, slow motion moments
to pick and choose and linger, cafés and
train tickets, a simple mosaic or a labyrinth,
time breathing its magical chant over some
unfolding future. I can rebraid your hair
with a hundred colored bands, invoke a
thousand warm nights just like this one,
with its Mediterranean calm, with its
welcome. No use anyway trying to sleep
with the neighbors up talking so loud,
no use trying to sleep now, with this late
knowledge that something as desperate
is but a moment of respite
is but a small, flattened clearing
that looks like a place to lie down.
Come closer, just for a moment.
I promise to stop talking, overlook the
details. There is a sweet jasmine smell
in the breeze, hours that taste like honey,
a trace of mint lingering in your hair.
I will stop asking these questions,
stop second-guessing my luck.
Wake up, peel those eyelids. The
music is gentle now, the night so clear.
There is no pack of strays to follow you home,
there are no unlit corners where one split second
could change your life.
(Barcelona, 2009, revised 2015)