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

New England, 1967

Changed are the forms in my dreams;
now are lateral red houses
and delicate bronze leaves
and chaste winter and pious firewood.
As on the seventh day, the earth
is good. At twilight there persists
something nearly not, bold and sad,
an antique rumor of Bible and war.
Soon (they say) will fall the snow
and America awaits me on each corner,
but I feel in the declining afternoon
today so tardy and yestern so brief.
Buenos Aires, I make my way
past your corners, sans why or when.

Cambridge, 1967