not a window,
not even a mirror, but
a singular view of the world
whose translation is all but lost

it is a desk
with a small man
filing paperwork in the same office
where i stood twenty-five days back
(the first time i thought to be done)

just like everything governmental,
there is no explanation,
no offering of help,
no taking of envelopes from one
desperate-to-get-paid employee
to the paper gods in Murcia

and why didn’t you send it all through
la ventanilla única? he asks,
as flippant as the day is bright.
oh, i want to reply, Google translate ready,
you mean the single window?

sorry, didn’t realize
that the windows of the world
could be hidden so obscurely
behind words that are doors