I

Why does your name continue
to be remembered?
In jail, while letters are forgotten
the meaning remains.
I try to remember
lining the letters up together
and every meaning

But they are obscure,
like your eyes, lady —
absent, like your visit when it ends —
and pale, like the smoothness
of your tiny oval face.
You could come then,
spoiled, desired, innocent,
a season of budding within your clothes.
Then I would forget your name
that wavers
between distraction
and imminence

II

The last train to Barcelona
hooted a final whistle
at the station.
You were pale
among morning branches that sipped
the wind, last murmurings, and cold.
So you are leaving
to seek a job as housekeeper
in a kingdom up north?
You, the gypsy restaurant mistress!
Will you remember how
you were encircled by singers
who took us for bride and groom
amid flowers, copper plates,
and shadow boughs?
A night ...
and then you're off
pale
on the last train to Barcelona

III

As though you never lived
at the pension in the narrow square
and never left on a chair
in your room — your dress, some sand
and the lily.
As though you never soaked in
the salt that tasted of seas
and narrowing waves.
As though, when we went down
to dawn's coffeeshop in a hurry,
you were not exhausted, very exhausted.