There it was, in a gauche and callow
piece of cinema, a plastic bag air –
lifting from the cobblestones, swell-
ing from the windgust, giving itself up
to flight, dancing its flamenco
before a kiosk in front of the windows
of the Mother Teresa Hospital.
For all the world a soul,
the radiant swirl of a nebula
in which was joined:
the blueprint for a temple,
the interrogation of a political prisoner,
a bowl fallen out of someone’s hands rolling across the floor.
I am weak, my soul, when I see
how you run across the white stones
to someone’s heart, always
to the heart.
Translated by Robert Welch