(4.10) A Photo of a Photo

after  César Vallejo



I have disappeared completely, between sea

of eye and sea of air made collimate. On the lip

of an island, I am gone—I won’t euphemize

on a day like today,

a Thursday in spring


I am here alone, in good company. All the trees

have fingers they bend to wave at one another

and each round fruit is a whole globe.

My shoes—abandoned weeks ago, and my life

with them


The air swallowed him, they will say,

already forgotten I will be soon. My face alive

only in one-dimensional frames,

folded and creased,

riffing on solitude.


Yes, I think I will stay, here behind the eye,

which holds the same sun from a secret place.

I think I will be no more

on simple, rich-dirt roads. I’m pretty sure

I have decided, or at the least,


I have not returned.


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