Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

The street is dark
and the houses quiet,
supplicant voices
long gone.
The roses stand so still—
time too stands still, irredeemable;
it does not care
to know when
the almond bush blooms. . . .

My neighbour,
he greets me with his
hands; his eyes hold
fondly his dog
(she is silent).
She watches us with great care.
There is no burning bush—
just here, beside our two homes,
a comprehension
      at last. . . .

Nothing
is going to happen tonight.
My flesh
pandiculates.
I can no longer hear
at my back
a treacherous crack
of some tight seam; just here, at dusk I
watch happy boys
drift over the grass,

their eyes
filled with candy and
October dreams.