I spy on the building closest to hand a movement that begins out on its balconies as the day's routine, the early tasks of morning with their stock and styleless gestures, flowers again. I fall in love at this one hour when people most repeat themselves, least connected to their inner lives and packed with habits laid down long ago. There's a woman I observe who constantly appears in bathrobe, on floor eight, with coffee cup, matronly blonde, in love with life casting glances at her wider world while taking two quick sips or three, and then with an erotic shake loosens up the sugared lees, to reach the best of sips, the last, the sweetest. . . all before quite waking up. Before you quite wake up, blonde of the morning, hold fast to ritual tasting, self-communion. Off from your balcony, at last emerged from sleep, slip inside your home, by now yourself, make gestures of your own, not those somebody has bequeathed to you.
From Reversible Monuments: An Anthology of Contemporary Mexican Poetry, edited by Monica de la Torre and Michael Wiegers, written by Fabio Mórabito, and translated by Geoff Hargreaves. Copyright © 2000 by Geoff Hargreaves. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press. All rights reserved.