IX

They follow me,
the broken telephones of Granada,
when I go to find you
and whole streets are communicating.

Submerged in your conch-shell voice,
I would love the sea, out of a mouth
pressed against mine,
knowing that it is calm at a distance,
while gardens
pass, breathe,
retract
on their instinct of absence.

In them nothing exists
ever since those summers began to kidnap you.
Only I inhabit them
to discover the face
of lovers who kiss,

with my eyes out of work,
my heart without traffic,
the insomnia that guards the August cities,
and ambulances secret like birds.