main | Vacant room | Dawning | Butcher shop | Simplicity | Farewell | Dulcia Linquimus Arva | Last sun in Villa Ortúzar | Mythical founding of Buenos Aires | Deathwatch on the Southside | Buenos Aires Deaths | Chess | Quatrain | Cyclical Night | A thirteenth-century poet | Susana Soca | Camden, 1892 | A Northside knife | Milonga of Albornoz | New England, 1967 | The labyrinth | Invocation to Joyce | Tankas | Susana Bombal | Things | Menaced | You | Poem of quantity | The sentinel | To the German language | 1891 | Hengist asks for men, A.D. 449 | Browning poet resolves to be | Suicide | I am | Fifteen coins | Blind man | 1972 | Elegy | The exile (1977) | In memory of Angelica | My books | Talismans | The white deer | The profound rose | Mexico | Herman Melville | To Johannes Brahms | Baruch Spinoza | Alhambra | Music box | Adam is your ashes | On acquiring an encyclopedia | Nostalgia for the present | The accomplice | Shinto | T
The smell of coffee and
Sunday and its tedium. Morning
And on the glimpsed page the vain
Publication of allegorical verses
By a happy colleague. The old man
Is prostrate and pale in his decent
Poor room. Otiosely
He spies his face in the weary mirror,
And thinks, unsurprised, that face
Is he. The distrait hand touches
The turbid whiskers and looted mouth.
Not far the end. His voice proclaims:
Almost I am not, but my verses scan
Life and its splendor. I was Walt Whitman.