A Burrow
The burrow is lined with fragments
of language. Some are mine,
but most
belong to the old ones I adore.
When I say one to myself, a moment
of my past unfolds,
without judgment or accusation,
just that peculiar flavor
that’s like one of the senses but isn’t any,
or a compound of all …
So À la pêche aux moules
is Paris, rainy autumn,
when tv journalists made politicians
sing that child’s song
on the steps of the Élysée.
When I go to that place, it must be
invisible to others
as the moment of a poem’s
first lonely stirrings.
At night and sometimes all day
I lie safe in the midst of them.
Some would say this is no life at all,
but how could that be,
when all of my life is
eternally present?
Of course, I must sometimes go out
for new images.
Then others might catch me
observing the sunlight
as it falls on the whorls
of a particular tree.
— after Kafka