The rooms aren’t what they appear to be
nor are they the sum of what they seem. What comes clear
is their daily record of contact:
from the contours that rooms impress on objects
and that objects briefly lend to rooms.
From the changeable features
They know themselves, define themselves at those borders,
as at a mirror’s edge:
that thin feeling that sews space to solidity,
that severs and couples it in a ceaseless drafting.
Translations of “Comenzaron a llamarte,” “Los cuartos no son como deben ser,” and “Entre estas ruinas.” From Firefly under the Tongue. Copyright 2008 by New Directions. By arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.