I think of a city
with all its streets
and lies
and trembling dangers
I think of my own death
and my own deaths and my own day and night
I think of
little windows embed in the flat and unlevel'd surface of the floor
as mirrors
where the sky
sees its innermost and darkest reflections.
The traps that carry
through the watery night
to the deepness within.
To the the night within.
To the secret, to the
night in the night.
When I think of myself. And of the traps.
Para Fernanda Jofré
