“não há pior desgraça que cego em Granada.”
My grandfather
hands me the sentence
like it’s older than both of us.
Blind.
Funny how the word
fits over so many eyes.
The ones that read
without looking.
The ones that look
without seeing.
I used to think a poem
had to grow.
Now I think
it has to erode.
Chip away
at the noise
until what’s left
could have been
hidden inside the stone
all along.