Now that my poetry is finished
and I'm once again grateful
for what
passes as real
in this version of my life, my favourite one,
the one in
which, in late evening,
the lake appears
to hold another, more beautiful
sky,
never again will any time
so quietly pass.
These perceptions
soon lost,
if only because everyone's first wish
has always been to
see
himself through another's eyes.
By merely looking we make
casts
of these shadows, the ones that forever
point back to
ourselves
by mimicking the very holes
we punch in the moonlight,
mugging for the camera,
chatting about this and that
even as the bird
flies
into the glass door and dies.
There is a precision to
absurdity
that illuminates the immeasurability of the truth,
and we'll
never know one another
more intimately than when we share
precisely
these kinds of misunderstandings.
Place your hand on my shoulder.
Empty
your pockets into mine.
Now you've caught your thief.
