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
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.