Las ilusiones, Jonás Trueba

Un primer beso. Es de noche, han caminado y bebido. Se han sentado a hablar en un banco, luego han ido a otro bar y, a la salida, él por fin se ha decidido a besarla. Al despegar los labios, él le pregunta a ella si se encuentra bien. Parece mareada. Se agarra a él, que la rodea con el brazo y la conduce hasta el banco más cercano. Ella le explica que le sucede a menudo. Alguna vez se ha desmayado, perdiendo el conocimiento. Ella le pregunta si va a cuidarla. La pregunta flota, adquiere un significado involuntariamente grave, fuera de lugar. Pero él responde que sí. Y vuelven a besarse. 

St. Paul and All That, Frank O'Hara

Totally abashed and smiling
                                                 I walk in
                                                 sit down and
                                                 face the frigidaire
           it's April
           no May
           it's May

such little things have to be established in morning
after the big things of night
                                      do you want me to come? when
i think of all the things I've been thinking of
                                                                   I feel insane
simply "life in Birmingham is hell"
                                                   simply "you will miss me
                                                        but that's good"
when the tears of a whole generation are assembled
they will only fill a coffee cup
                                              just because they evaporate
doesn't mean life has heat
                                        "this various dream of living"
I am alive with you
        full of anxious pleasures and pleasurable anxiety
hardness and softness
      listening while you talk and talking while you read
I read what you read
                             you do not read what I read
which is right, I am the one with the curiosity
                             you read for some mysterious reason
                                I read simply because I am a writer
the sun doesn't necessarily set, sometimes it just
                                                                         disappears
                          when you're not here someone walks in
                                                                   and says "hey,
there's no dancer in that bed"
                             O the Polish summers! those drafts!
                       those black and white teeth!
you never come when you say you'll come but on the
                                                    other hand you do come

London (Patrick Keiller, 1994)

Flight, Anne Sexton

Thinking that I would find you,
thinking I would make the plane
that goes hourly out of Boston
I drove into the city.
Thinking that on such a night
every thirsty man would have his jug
and that the Negro women would lie down
on pale sheets and even the river into town
would stretch out naturally on its couch,
I drove into the city.
On such a night, at the end of the river,
the airport would sputter with planes
like ticker-tape.

Foot on the gas
I sang aloud to the front seat
to the clumps of women in cotton dresses,
to the patches of fog crusting the banks,
and to the sailboats swinging on their expensive hooks.
There was rose and violet on the river
as I drove through the mist into the city.
I was full of letters I hadn't sent you,
a read coat over my shoulders
and new white gloves in my lap.

I dropped through the city
as the river does
rumbling over and under, as indicated,
past the miles of spotted windows
minding their own business,
through the Sumner Tunnel,
trunk by trunk through its sulfurous walls,
tile by tile like a men's urinal,
slipping through
like somebody else's package.

Parked, at last,
on a dime that would never last,
I ran through the airport.
Wild for love, I ran through the airport,
stockings and skirts and dollars.
The night clerk yawned all night at the public,
his mind on tomorrow's wages.
All flights were grounded.
The planes sat and the gulls sat,
heavy and rigid in a pool of glue.

Knowing I would never find you
I drove out of the city.
At the airport one thousand cripples
sat nursing a sore foot.
There was more fog
and the rain came down when it thought of it.
I drive past the eye and ear infirmaries,
past the office buildings lined up like dentures,
and along Storrow Drive the streetlights
sucked in all the insects who
had nowhere else to go.

Les jours où je n'existe pas (Jean-Charles Fitoussi, 2002)