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        XXII

In more than thirteen nights
I have spent thirteen dreams with you.
I would know how to tell you...

In your marijuana-colored eyes,
you guard a slow proposition of bliss,
a boat that recedes without showing us its back.

You undress daily
in a way that will never become one of my poems,
your syllables become enemies of time,
with unfolded gestures you unfold our clothes
and a strange arrogance takes over me,
suddenly becoming its custom.

And I, who do not confess to owing you all I have
because one inherits verse like nostalgia,
I do not dare to tell you
the sensation of hearing your closeness,
the surrender you give me with the heat of your skin,
my indispensable feelings.

autógrafo

Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams


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Book I
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