little warrants my presence here
beside the bougainvillea, its blossoms
like crepe paper spilling everywhere,
flores magentas y rosas, moradas y blancas,
the lemon trees, too, hung with fruit
still yellowing, like first-lit lanterns.
& somewhere the expressions of a guitar
manifest so delicately that each note seems
to emanate from nothingness
along with the revelation
that I am only a visitor here, suddenly
without purpose, in this alien afternoon
of strange harmonics from other lives,
into someone else's painting. being content
in this intent sense of emptiness, this wonderful
lack of grounding, I feel things
through their distances, most of all myself.
the light just so & so generous
that each texture comes with meaning
to be read, shadows filling with depth,
sky eddying profound & border-less.
it is a beauty to be foreign.