XX

The days take off their shoes
to pass by without us realizing.
They are almost dismissed, almost encounters
—happy but uncomfortable—
of bodies that watch each other
and postpone their appointment.
                        Although in the background,
we are left with footprints that are not memories.

In that uncultivated garden I keep
the man who came to desire you,
to walk without you,
wild and alone.
Because of you spoke the oleanders,
with their difficult branches like teenage girls,
and the palms tall like your nakedness,
and that confused sky
that sought
the light by which love distinguishes your eyes.

We age not at all. Maybe we never age.

And now I can tell you,
when you remind me of oleanders,
and your arcuate nakedness sketches a palm,
and your eyes mist
over the wild garden of lovers.

Maybe we never age. Or perhaps it is that time
took off its heels so as not to bother us.
Or perhaps desire
walks our lips barefoot still.