Places exist, still, on earth
In stillness, like this garden
Or that peaceful square
Whitewashed and somnolent in the sun
Where news are of the migration of the wahoo
And the netting of shrimp and snapper
And the length and timing of the rains
That flood the desert pastures
And turn the dusty streets
Of the town to primeval ooze.

Here from my terrace the world
Tumbles into a chaos
Of cardón and bougainvillea;
Passion’s tundrils wind insidiously
Round Papaya and Lomboy,
Struggle unto death for space and light.
And there, heavy with its presence
And with moisture sucked impossibly
Out of the thirsty sands
The tuna and choya, barbed and dangerous
Challenge the eye with the beauty
Of stiletto steel.
All around, the bewildering toil
Of ants and roaches and desert wasps
And countless pullulating insects of no name
Charges the landscape with vitality
More sensed than seen.
While vipers and white scorpions
Lurk in unsuspected corners
With the infinite patience of dark intent
Scarce alive or so it seems immune
To the thermal ebbing of the hours.

Beyond the boundary of this white wall
Or that languid spray of wild vine
A graceful, swaying palm grove
Stretches its fingers over the mango trees
And the rows of fresh sown winter peppers
Towards the blue line of the sea.

Here are all my news
In the ceaseless tremours
Tragedies, births and deaths
Of this small, forgotten shore
Where time beats to the wave’s pounding
And where my passing
Will be as a sail on the far horizon
That hoves to view, lingers awhile,
Then drifts, scarce observed, into the haze
Where sky meets ocean.