Your Moroccan rugs lie in an otherwise empty, cavernous space.
You don’t sit on them for fear they will break.
And then what would you sit on?
The Zemmour carpets are modern,
I can see that in the embroidery.
Patterns boast not of the passage of time but of the way time passes through them.
You bought them from a man who wears a red hat and speaks Arabic.
“Morocco has one of the few natural indigo dyes in the world,” he says, in his own tongue.
He holds a match to one of the carpets; it fails to ignite the wool.
Every morning, you hold a cigarette lighter up to test the fabric’s purity.
Then one day your shoelaces creep into the intricate design of the rugs,
The way roots of neighboring trees stretch together in permanent embrace.
You are made of those fibers that are slow to burn, some not burning at all.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Either a parachute will open
Or it won’t.
But I’m falling,
Through
Rain-soaked air.
Through ghost clouds
And time zones
At the speed of foolishness.
It is the year zero
And I am crazy for you.
When I hit earth,
the constellations fall into your lap.
Time begins.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Her hands open up
Like she alone holds the sky
I believe she does
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
In the art section of Retiro Park’s book stalls: Picasso hides in the shadows of Goya.
Along the streets of Lavapiés: graffiti strikes a blow against the crimes of Franco.
Atop the boulders of La Pedriza: hikers spread out the city like a tent.
And in the sea-swept climes of Asturias: we adorn our plates with pulpo.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC