Some people wake up
and cannot remember
their own names. They forget
husbands, children, homes.

Think how foolish we are— who wake up
and remember!
We should spend every day forgetting,
leaving behind what surely will be taken.

In Florida there were once
a people called Malhado
who spoke Capoque and Han.
When one Malhado visited another

the custom was to weep
for one half hour before speaking.
Then the one who was visited
would give the visitor

everything he owned.
Those people are gone now.
Look at us here—our flesh,
our sun-bleached skin, our wants.

I do weep when I see you.
I know you will leave. At night
when we are naked
I am sad and watch the darkness

stretch its chilled wings.
You have a lean and pale body.
Oh, love, the moon is dead too—
but sticks around.