Each city looks at me
with the eyes of other woman
with which you could cross a street
suspire together in a public park
throw the same bread to squirrels.
Each city has an avenue I avoid
the star of the maps
the infallible circuit of tourist guides.
A road
that saw her
beating at your side,
buying clothes in some predictable store
or taking photos of obelisks
like in the catalogs.
So
I immerse myself in small invisible lanes
passageways touched by the dawn
that secretly host in flower pots
some sneaking spiders.
And I spin like a dancer in her stage
for a beholder in the first seat.
Perhaps my life with you was only this.
A different tour across a town
that you remember, still.
Translated by Marisa Martínez Pérsico
EN 
MK