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from the Span­ish of Anto­nio Machado

Not once did I pur­sue my fame.
That peo­ple might recall my name,
and song, was not my hope;

I am in love with sub­tle worlds,
weight­less globes of gen­tle swirls,
like bub­bles made of soap.

I like to see their painted art
of sun and scar­let, watch them fly
beneath the blue and trem­bling sky
before they break apart.

(orig­i­nally pub­lished in the Alabama Lit­er­ary Review, Vol­ume 18, Num­ber 1, Fall 2009)