Andrés Navarro





Pointless to think that love doesn’t bleach

the wet sand or island walls, especially


that the future

is almost literal. Books: reprieves from

how we act. And at my feet a certain cat plunged

in a simple dream of sparrows.


Imagine the equator between a vast horizon

of pleas and a prophecy of advertising, an enterprising

morning, your hands isolated in a world

of euphoria they don’t understand.


We can take care of ourselves

in a styleless scene, we translate

landscapes: the streak of coast gives back a prehistoric


of sound like a boundary; the rest—including

the breathing arris

that stretch the facades—sullenly

exercises against traffic. The promenade’s


hiccupping lung unoccupied by families

is a change of subject, something ruled out

of the conversation in favor of sensual

extravagance. And sprinklers whirl endlessly

on the grass.


Understand me: I say that you outnumber me

if you talk about us, love, but the facts also

compete for the place

from which you returned with new questions each time.


You: a substance put in contact

with its reagent. Me, selfishness without any target.


And your five senses of resistance

still think

so they don’t have to believe.




The wind carries the negative of the faces it has touched

and it’s hard

to track its influence in your gestures.                                                   


If this were a great city, maybe we could

visit the zoo—cattle which group together

at nightfall while the tropical fish

in the aquarium inhale

H’s, in a display of humility.

But here we’ve come to separate

the possible

from the expected: everything that matters

and everything

that doesn’t matter waits four hours away

on a highway heading west. Change places


together, equidistanced…. We return to a place

where ability or scruples are worth more

than strength of character, where spiders

are still a thoughtless pleasure. Without domestic


chores that sharpen maternal or paternal

poses, the most fragile

marrow of our naps opens up in opinions

again and again. And in the long run, the light


licks belly buttons, shaved sirens, nights

to drain off without further ado

the wheezing of obsessive

lovers. If I am not me

or it isn’t

the truth that speaks

                              you can give me interior

models in stone and long views with hardly any

obstructions, something that readies intention

from the edges.


After, sprawled out in parenthesis, a whisper

said there was still time to squander

in inquiries

but I thought that if someone were to see us

he would see a schematic age under an almost

white roof.


I correct myself: you can deny sympathy

and the conscious voice, but not proportions.


My second obligation is to convince you.



 Translated by Curtis Bauer

[Traveling] is from Un huésped panorámico [A Panoramic Guest] (Barcelona, DVD Ediciones, 2010).


You can read and listen to the poem in the original Spanish here.