We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Tomorrow, a God I don’t know
will offer me salvation if I don’t blindfold my soul
as your shadow passes by.
Tomorrow, a mist
will rise from the cornfields
and we’ll know another season is upon us
because our clothing will stick to our ribs,
and you’ll depart forever
like those visitors from the city
who don’t know the sense of belonging or the scent of rotting leaves
—or even less—
the desolation of the hillsides
after an infernal rain.
Tomorrow I’ll be silent,
turned toward my solitary pillow
like a schoolgirl punished in the farthest corner of the world,
while the nettles at the back of the garden
will open their milky buttons in the midst of this silence
when it’s all much too late.