the winter anthology
Vol. 12
Andrés Sánchez Robayna
from The Book, Behind
the Dune
vii
The rustling of trees
and their infinite text were written
with black characters in the sun’s
eye. And from there,
in a dark, tight swirl, they slipped
into my gaze like a melting
of gold and precise leaves
on the dot of the iris.
O brightness loosed,
stretched out on the grass, I pondered
the solar avalanche, our
light’s soft flood
embracing worlds. I dwelled
in towers of the sun.