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 share.
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.
