Carlos Barbarito

Nothing grows except the grass

Nothing grows except the grass. Nothing leaps into sight except some stone And what the stone contains and protects. Here, far from the beach, Far from the place where the water Returns every so

Behind, perhaps, let the sea blow

Behind, perhaps, let the sea blow. Let some word blow Outside every destination of slime, rust. Perhaps ointments from Avicenna, Forests of embraces, Crops, swarms, humid implications. Or, perhaps, the same. It sits up.

To Marianne Moore

If the idea of immortality is excluded, There remains dust, Grass, Water that forms puddles, The branch from which the bird sings, A certain mystery that reason Supposes a fleeting shadow. There remains, in

It does not matter in what language one writes

It does not matter in what language one writes. All language is foreign, incomprehensible. Every word, as soon as pronounced, Flees far away, where nothing or nobody can reach it. It does not matter