Here is what the dogs made: detritus. Let us lift our feet

carefully. Let us listen to the long day at its centre,

the avenues that cross, the curious people,

the last form of sensation permitted by our vices. It's never worth

smiling as if it was only that unknown old man who had died.

Tomorrow, yes,

tomorrow the curtain will be raised and never again

shall it be necessary for us to avoid panicking. It was a fire, it was.

"Now wait a minute," observed meekness, "that's for us to judge,

for all of us to judge."

In the end, long shapes that stretch,

rivers of water, so pure, divided into skies - because it's true

that only in clouds, water. A great-aunt who still doesn't wear glasses

had perfect eyesight, even saw a cell.

When will we go get the luggage? When will the doorman come up?

Will we one day know how to build our cubicles? Questions wise

and blushing, the sun passed over them and they gathered in

the bright aridity. Between the head and guts

nothing was permitted to remain unpunished: Caesar,

my old friend, why, why was that?

Let us bow and lower our heads, but raise our feet.

And in the meantime, let us also swing our arms, refuse to idly bite our nails,

put our hearts in an accompanied place,

for we are going to have to sweat. And, only in the end, water.

• From Honey and Poison: Selected Poems by Pedro Tamen. Published by Carcanet Press, price £8.95