(For Cristina B-G)

Time is change, change is time
and from the vibrations of his life,
like tree rings, he could then compute
the harsh and arid seasons, flushes
of passion, harvests of lotus leaves,
squalls, hurricanes, calms so still
the whisper of a petrel's wings
carried across the gannet's bath;

the silk of lips, a catalogue of arms,
slide of skin on skin, sunsets
and rises over furtive hills,
the curled delights of rivers snaking
through deserts where falcons perch
on crags above the supplicating trees;

wet streets, familiarity of bars,
bodegas, cantinas, estaminets, shebeens,
solace of a lonely glass of wine,
froth of beer, aspirations of champagne,
glow of rum, time-stop of mescal
killing the slow tread of footfalls
and the pain of love.

Some day he too would surely disappear
beyond the pale of distances, beyond
the blue rhythms of a smoky night,
deep song of a summer dream,
with all the sadness of a trifling wind,
blue-brightness of a chuckling sea;

the stone of silence rolled across the door,
no change, no time, no music, no encore.

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