Resíduo

From everything a little remained
Of my fear. Of your disgust.
Of the hoarse screams. Of the rose
a little remained

A little light remained
captured in the hat.
In the eyes of the bully
a little tenderness remained
(very little).

Little remained of this dust
that covered your white shoe.
Few clothes remained, few
tattered veils
little, little, very little.

But from everything a little remains.
From the bombed bridge,
from two blades of grass,
from the pack
- empty - of cigarettes, a little remained.

For from everything a little remains.
A little of your chin remains
on your daughter's chin.
Of your rough silence
a little remained, a little
on the angry walls,
on the mute leaves that rise.

A little of everything remained
in the porcelain saucer,
broken dragon, white flower,
a little remained
of a wrinkle on your forehead,
a portrait.

If from everything a little remains,
why wouldn't a little of me remain?
in the train
heading north, in the boat,
in the newspaper ads,
a little of me in London,
a little of me somewhere?
in the consonant?
in the well?

A little remains oscillating
in the mouth of rivers
and the fish don't avoid it,
a little: it's not in books.

From everything a little remains.
Not much: from a faucet
drips this absurd drop,
half salt and half alcohol,
this frog's leg jumps,
this broken clock glass
shattered into a thousand hopes,
this swan's neck,
this childish secret...
From everything a little remained:
of me; of you; of Abelard.
Hair in my sleeve,
from everything a little remained;
wind in my ears,
simple burp, moan
of an unconformed viscera,
and tiny artifacts:
bell, alveolus, revolver capsule...
From everything a little remained.

And from everything a little remains.
Oh open the lotion bottles
and stifle
the unbearable bad smell of memory.

But from everything, terrible, a little remains,
and beneath the rhythmic waves
and beneath the clouds and winds
and beneath the bridges and tunnels
and beneath the flames and sarcasm
and beneath the slime and vomit
and beneath the sob, the prison, the forgotten
and beneath the spectacles and beneath the scarlet death
and beneath the libraries, asylums, triumphant churches
and beneath yourself and beneath your already hard feet
and beneath the family and class hinges,
always a little of everything remains.
Sometimes a button. Sometimes a rat.