After “lo fatal”
When I read you first I was living in Bergen.
Pretending at translation
and going up scree, clutching at conifers
in a painted flaxen sun.
I'd imagined you’d given up on being Modernista
to settle for a quaint shack—
for the hardness of the carved fjord.
Now if you were to arrive in the wild
where I have kept this place
strangely similar by the pine, blue herons,
Mount Ozzard over the dandelions,
how would you come walking down the road?
Would deer pause to smell your tracks
or the cedar cutter look up as he heard you pass,
or these coal-black snags
which guard the lot’s entrance
and haven't swayed in so long
groan?
Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo.
Happy is the tree, you said. Scarcely sentient.
Ruben Dario: what is the tree
which rushes through this poem?