"This house pleases me perfectly, a perfect spot for this not knowing where to be/Let's not go in. It frightens me, this permission/ to return by the minute, across exploded bridges."
In 1996 I returned to a study of Cesar Vallejo's *Trilce*. I don't speak or write Spanish with the excuse of time. Time is nothing that invites me closer so don't criticize or disagree. The poem is found elsewhere.
Enigmatic notes in the middle of nowhere.This is a kind of loving that wrenches me out of language, that reverses me inside a catalogue of surrealistic prepositions.That they always correct deprives us of accurate lessons.I stand by my note about *Trilce*. It's not much but that's all there is.
I am inside outside inside.Transference of the lexicons. Exhausted admiration not me. But that's all to continue. Not. Midnight. That wrenches languge out of me.