by Xavier Roca

Every time I see the leaves
fall in their alloted places
I feel tempted to look for the words
to keep a record of it.

All space and time would be different,
though real and precise,
if only one of them fell misplaced
or chose not to fall.

It would be great to know which freedom they enjoy,
if any,
for that would be a clue to mine, too,
since I can be no less than a leaf,
or a bough that breaks
this instant
and not before.

When I look at my records
there is always a question-mark clear-cut image
carved out of a layer of leaves on soft ground,
so when this leaf falls
or that bough over there breaks at last
it will find me just staring
and unable to choose.

Xavier Roca. Barcelona, 1962. Harmless sociopath holding a degree in English Literature; the faintest memories of an English-speaking grandmother who died before he had the time to properly grasp the language still haunt him. He has published poems with Chronogram (Kingston, NY, USA), Möbius (Flushing, NY, USA) and Decanto (Littlehampton, UK).