WEBVTT

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"Ancient lake bottoms
exposed in half-light.

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The dash scratches a
static, a flash of no snow

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until nightfall.

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Then news spotty as this
light, fog caught, vague,

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something about a satellite,
incredible frictions.

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And then you find love on the
A.M. West Desert twilight,

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but we're back in B.A. two
elevator flights up then

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a Victrola sobs a
tango, cóctel y amor.

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It is the first tango
you sang to us at night.

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Y todo a media luz /
Que es un brujo el amor.

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On the airwaves, long waves,
racing in the atmosphere,

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each basin and range.

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The music is out
there, though unheard.

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Here song is different with air,
so the air itself must change.

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A medio luz los besos
/ A media luz los dos.

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The air is a caress,
a piropo is a stare.

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Ignore it, still it
has its way with you."

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[HELLICOPTER]

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Let me start that
sentence again.

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"The boys with flair
always addressed to you.

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I'll trade your
daughter for my father.

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I pledge, he's adept in
love, and in decent shape.

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A gigolo makes
love with his eyes,

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his words, shimmering the dim
air that parts us until it

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is itself a man going
away, and circling around,

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advancing a tango of
transparency, a spiral stair.

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Dancing imagined tango
in crepúsculo interior,

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and all this through the air.

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Over seven lanes
of traffic, tango

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spilling from each corner,
from each car, including

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this one now, but seems
light years away from B.A.

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And here, tango flickers
through the desert,

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on the dash, in tango hay de
todo, that city, these sands,

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this snowless February
first, high and dry,

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and the snow that's
been promised,

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even the abrupt dead
air seems a mere res.

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Part of a song half in
love with easeful death,

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La Cumparsita, most
beloved of all tangos,

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makes of death a kind of love,
a masked parade of misery,

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a tango, a song.

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How else to survive
in Buenos Aires?

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Sudden buzzing, dead air,
crackling, winter snow,

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warning for the
entire state, freeze.

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You shove the dial off, put your
sunglasses in the glove box,

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blink furiously in
what's left of the light.

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Rearview mirrors patch
ovals of western light

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in the black east, where they
pool, lake-caught light burning

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water between salts.

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What little love I first
had for this place,

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some part of the love that
left you sick for home.

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Recordando el pasado
que lo hace sufrir.

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Memory, like snow, is
a scattering of light,

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dolor made crystal.

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Snow itself the afterglow
of a thing above it,

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a thing risen, stilled a minute,
then growing as it disperses,

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falls.

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The family scattered through
Spain, Argentina, the States,

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this desert, its quiet
after the tango is over.

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And home always a
hemisphere away, though

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in the same mountain
range, the same rain

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shadow as her childhood
summers sped from Buenos Aires

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to join your father, for
a while to disappear,

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in Miraflores, where we passed
each new year in air not

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unlike this, near Salt Lake,
but there, no snow ever.

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Here this winter is
merely late, a full month

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past the first of the year,
half-light of spring well

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on its way, bidden
in the air, changed

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and changing between flakes.

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El amor es un brujo.

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You were 19 on this shore,
tango-mad, but bewitched

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by a blizzard, your first snow."

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