July 20, 2005, Madrid
Little more than a six-letter word
on a globe for some twenty years
is what you were. And then I walked
hours and hours that
sweltering first day. In you
I have felt lonely and most
alive. From one your cafes I hear
jackhammers, horns. Your pages
are open and spread on marble,
El Pais giving news of the living,
the dead: a first marriage (you're
suddenly the freest state
on earth): London burying her own.
That morning, a year ago,
waking to radio reports of your
mangled commuter-trains
a hint of what you are rose
in me. Calls, e-mails, calls.
More than any other
visit these years, I see
that you are not, really,
part of my past.
--Francisco Aragon, Glow of Our Sweat, (Scapegoat Press, 2010)
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