He is there. And I am. Mingling in a face
exposed for the first time to thirteen winds patched up with new rain…
And we are not. Scissors have torn the root.
Frayed knots. And a door broken open.
I trace the whole way back upstream in vain.
All the hawsers have been cut. The waters are undone.
The boats which tried to pass a bridge are shattered.
And, in spite of it all, confused in a face, he and I.
And we are not. A new froth blossoms on the strait
that joins and separates: who knows where the source is?
Lowering its nets into these waters, life takes what
belongs to it, forgetting who he is, who I am,
what kind of love cast old dice at the meeting point,
what chance set chance afire, spark in the wood:
the contours of the leaves bury it all.