I'm thinking of prose poems. I'm thinking in English about them, prose poems. I'm thinking of how I had never heard of them, for so long. I'm thinking of how a sentence sometimes pops on my mind, after seeing a leaf of uncommon, unthinkable, shape or of some more banal shape, like a heart. Or when a sentence comes to mind because I've been worrying, reflecting wondering and pondering about something in life. I'm thinking of how what I see or think comes back to me in a specific language. I'm a translator. I'm always here and there. And that is that. That is how it is. And the rest follows. The language chosen by the thought. The thought leading the language. The language flowing the thought. A wave brushing the ocean softly, the foam... Foam? A espuma. One language fails, the thought slips into the other. One language invades the other.
I'm thinking of prose poems. Three twenty nine in the morning, I've been thinking of them for hours. The hours I should have slept, the hours I'll miss tomorrow. I'm thinking of prose poems and telling myself I should be sleeping, I should not be thinking of them, prose poems. I remember, before I knew they existed, I had written pieces that started with one sentence, followed by another and another and another... I'd look at that thing I had written, that text box, that group of words that formed sentences that made up... something. I used to wonder what that was. I'd think: "It's a poem!".
The thing was a poem. I did not know prose poems. The poem was in the wrong shape, I'd think. I had to organize the poem. I had to align it, organize it discipline it. I'm thinking now of how many possible prose poems I might have transmutated or amputated into something else. I'm obsessing, in the middle of the night, about prose poems. I'm thinking of them and taking little naps when exhausted. I decide, finally, that there is nothing I can do but to write about prose poems. I do it finally. I write about them. I think and write about prose poems and now I can, at last, sleep.