I was the owner of my own darkness.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.