The other day I saw a muskrat in the water and then a small bundle of brown fur went shooting from one side to the other. I caught up to it to see it was a mink. So beautiful. My father used to trap mink. He was quite the hunter back in his day--mink was his favorite. I couldn't wait to tell him what I'd saw, knowing how much he'd enjoy it, now that he can't get out much at all. Also that the great blue heron are back flying so heavily overhead.
April is moving right along and poetry is happening in many and various places. I hope poetry is finding you or you are finding poetry. I know I'm trying....
You and I, when we sleep, we're like whales
because fish swim out of my mouth
and you dishevel the seaweed.
We hear the scent of seashells, the oranges of Sóller:
without earth that belongs to us belonging to the Earth.
Two Moroccans inhale glue
and the vapor climbs to our bedchamber;
the city throws its lights against the ceiling,
and perhaps there are cops, and perhaps sirens,
and the air is full of ash,
but our night, our night is submarined.
translated from the Catalan by Rowan Ricardo Phillips
The Paris Review