I don’t believe in returns
but this embittered heart with its old houses and ruined streets
keeps beating with each return
without expression or gestures
and it knows that the world is a bad place to come to
And one returns to write a poem that’s about a girl in an airport
who is waiting for an airplane from who knows where
or to write about the letter that I never received that Saturday
listening to the old cassette with my favorite oldies-but-goodies
or about the lines stolen from Salinas, Borges, Walcott
and the sunny afternoons in the fútbol stadium
I don’t believe in returns
but this worn-out heart from other days sings out of time
about the sky that burns the name that a woman
that I loved
I don’t believe in returns
but my vocation as a voyager makes it so that every time that
I depart into the great outdoors of the world
I leave, as in my Boy Scout days, little stones and breadcrumbs
so as not to lose the return path to your body.
EN 
MK