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 | The cipher | My last tiger | The cypress leaves | The weft
When reverses undo us,
for one second we are saved
by the least chance
attention or memory:
a fruit taste, the taste of water,
the face a dream returns,
November's first jasmine,
the compass's infinite longing,
a book we thought lost,
a hexameter's pulse,
the brief key that opens a house,
the smell of libraries and sandalwood,
an old streetname,
a map's colors,
an etymology unforeseen,
the sleekness of a filed nail,
the date we were looking for,
twelve dark tollings of the bell,
a brusque physical pain.
Eight million Shinto divinities
travel through the world, secretly.
These modest numen touch us,
touch and depart.