II
Some that
seem a monument time passed by -
you swirled around them like
their flimsy dream -
if you
could synchronize with these,
you'd spy sweeping along, coat–
tails flying:
stones are hurled
as much as you, and in their
own good time they plunge
like any cataract
self-absorbed.
As for the midges carrying out
their lives in a single day,
you, could they
notice you,
would seem a petrified eternity,
as common as the air, shaped
as nothing at
all.
A god
has to be a someone (someone?)
who no matter how close he comes
magnificently hides.
MARGUERITE BOUVARD
Power
Two abreast, the Mothers alight at the door
of the Casa Rosada. As usual, they arrive with the precise
consonance of migrating birds. But the President's secretary
wrings her hands, "El Presidente is away. We do not know
when he will return." "We have an appointment,
we will wait," the Mothers reply. "Senoras," the secretary protests.
The Mothers can't hear her. There aren't enough chairs
in the waiting room and they are busy ferrying some in.
