In the end they seemed to have a strange repose.
To have it without performing it.
Because it’s possible to perform the repose.
It’s possible when that chair is the same
chair in which your grandmother sat, and later your father. And you
too climbed onto it a year later, and in general, when someone says
chair
the image of that chair comes
to your mind, because you and your grandmother and your father had a chair.
It is not so in this case.
Outside the cars are buried beneath the snow
today a girl’s fever put you on the edge of a fence
of ideas like airports
where flights have been cancelled,
by snow, by snow, by perfumed snow.
That end, in which these people seem to have a strange repose,
it’s not more than the beginning. Seated in sepia colors,
both hands
clasped, elbows on knees,
the head tilted forward,
all of that gives the impression that the worst has already passed
but stays in your mind,
like a sinking ship
occupies a space stranded at the bottom of the ocean.
Diving once, I saw huge fish like sharks, the density
of their danger, the darkness
and the marine flowers, and the reefs,
are still on my forehead
when I tilt my head forward, seated on the chair
that belonged to someone I didn’t know. Someone had
to sell it, and look at yourself there, seated, your country is the weight
that tests your repose,
the stillness of the sea while these things
fall inside of it.
The weight of these things, our weight,
is an affair detained
that speeds
among the stars
and there we’re standing,
beyond our chairs and those of others
with our hands up like we’re being arrested
when in truth, we are about to take off.