(translated from an imaginary
Spanish poem of the 16th century)
My heart is like a rock,
A rock surrounded by the pounding
sea.
The sea is like a washerwoman
Up to her hips in blood,
The blood that beats against my
heart.
But look at it now.
All that's left of my heart is a
ragged
Blood-stained shirt the woman
Rubs against the lonely rock.
Yet not until she finishes her
work
Will my other heart start to
beat.
and One Way to Discover It Isn't
1. By Sight
The lacquer that my looking
Brushes onto things
Flattens out their imperfections
Or brings them into definition,
Dressing them to suit
My mood swings.
The plain unvarnished truth,
Veritas nude,
Is something I, at least, have
never viewed.
I live in a house that has
No windows, only mirrors,
And all the doors lead into
closets.
2. By Hearing
All night long, all day,
I hear strange sounds and say,
"Who's there? Friend or
foe?"
Familiar sounds I know,
They fight for one side or the
other
And leave their bloody tracks in
the snow.
There's no neutrality, no noise,
Everything sound is a signal
However hidden its meaning,
However difficult the code,
However much its meaning
My memory may corrode.
Every listener is a conductor,
Every conductor a sentry
As the sound waves push their way
To a welcome or unwelcome entry.
3. By Smell
The lady bent and asked the rose,
"How far am I from
Nottingham?"
The rose looked up and told the
lady,
"As far as I from rotting,
ma'am."
4. By Taste
My taste buds lick the lumpy
just-born world
Around me into shape, or else
Quickly inspect it
For obvious defects, then pass it
down
The disassembly line, absent
Mindedly.
The mouth is a cave, a theater,
an ocean.
The tongue, a dirty floor where
cavemen gnaw
On what they know
And turn it into what they are; a
stage
For ruminating sheep and
porcelain wolves;
A surging wave under the frail
ships.
5. By Touch
The fabric of reality
Is so delicate it's impossible
To touch it without tearing it,
To hold it without molding it.
Some tell their beads as evening
falls,
Others tap a loose-filled
cigarette.
Some curl up around the pleasure
of
A loved one, some curl up around
the pain.
There is fancy and there is
imagination,
According to the terms of one old
debate,
And then, I suppose, there are
facts.
But what are the facts?
Take the stubble on my face.
At what point does it stop
Re-assuring me about the tenacity
of growth and start
Alarming me about the tenacity of
decay?
They say your beard keeps growing
even after you're dead.
6. By the Sixth Sense
The moist night air
is seamed with being.
I know it is.
It must be.
Invisible seams,
the work of an expert.
What else
could hold together
this giant patch-work quilt of
seeming?
The possibilities
are teeming.
The probabilities
are numbered.
The certainties
are suffocating.
There must be something else
that we cannot apprehend.
