To touch the sidereal limits with the hands—Otero
Gone are the stars that are not the sun
that punctuate heights no longer heights,
heights become space. Things I will never know
with my proximity senses are gone, all gone:
I will never hear a star upon this Earth,
but I feel the warm gusts your wings stir up.
If, in the daytime, I were to leave bread and fruit for you,
you might come again. I am not so different from
the mangrove swamp where you play.
from Fieralingue’s Four Seasons, Spring issue