AL MARGEN DE MALLARMÉ
  
                         AIRE DE MAR
                                     La chair est triste, helas, et j’ai lu tous les livres
  
             Ah, la carne no es triste, no lei todo libro.
             Jamas se me hartarán los ojos ni las manos.
             Tan enorme es la hora que yo no la cailibro.
             Nunca es major la nada que en los lamentos vanos.
  
             (Oh, the flesh is not sad nor have I read all the books.
             Never will my eyes or my hands be sated.
             So vast is the hour that I do not measure it.
             Never is nothingness greater than in idle laments.)
                                                 —Jorge Guillén
  
  
                         The tidal call of unsad flesh pulls your name
                         like a rogue buoy—under the bridge, beyond
                         islands dotted with drunk seagulls. Nothing’s neat
                         as you think. Not gardens. Not long, slow lines
                         chasing across white pages. Those volumes
                         alphabetic on your shelves hide sharp boathooks
                         to rescue you from horizons. Traffic sounds
                         plant you in this precise day, but you’re still lost
                         in a ghost hint—a past life as a sea cook.
                         Oh, that flesh. It’s not sad, nor have you read all your books.
  
                         You were someone once—and somewhere perfectly
                         not here. Mail never found you there. The songs
                         of galleys aren’t the songs of kitchens. A home
                         is more than a berth, a hammock swung on waves
                         that don’t know what name you use when crossing
                         imaginary lines that lost sailors made.
                         All those old charts are torn scraps of sad books
                         you never read. They hold you, tangled in lines,
                         sheets unlashed. Just desires felt, still unstated.
                         Never will your hands or your eyes be sated.
  
                         At least you’re certain that freighted farewells
                         never dragged you beneath waves, under a bridge
                         or coughed you onto empty beaches. Alone
                         in all those lost lives—sailing away from loss
                         you couldn’t feel. Still, even now, your bones stay
                         cold as deep waters, as jetsam treasure.
                         The traffic light changes. You cross today’s street
                         as if it were an isthmus between truths.
                         You walk, drowning in this life you know. You’re sure it’s  
                         so vast. Its long hours. You cannot measure it.
  
                         Shake the keys from your pocket. Brace yourself
                         for stairs like a seaman leaving for fresh ports,
                         your walk mirrors seas you forgot to sail
                         this lifetime. That slight ache, left of your heart,
                         is only an ache. Still your face. Drop anchor
                         in this day—safe harbor. Lost seas are silent
                         as found tombs. With your non-memory, a fear 
                         slides off—soft, soundless, sleek as a new skiff.
                         Smile for her. Rise as cold tides relent.
                         Never is nothing greater than idle laments.