I will end with a prose piece called Standing Up.
In a split second of hard thought,
I managed to catch her.
I stopped holding the hand in my hands, strange.
She didn't really feel living rigid, dry, an old white plume
ridden lady's hat that freaked out the truth from 1912
thundering there and other rows from the fence boards
as when you open a photo album that
has got so old that no one can identify the people any longer.
I carried her back inside the chicken netting and let her go.
All of a sudden she came back to life.
She knew who she was and ran off according to the rules.
And the odds are thick with taboos.
But the Earth all around is full of affection and tenacity.
A low stone wall half overgrown with leaves.
When dusk begins to fall, the stones
are faintly luminous with a 100-year-old warmth
from the hands that built it.
It's been a hard winter, but summer is here
and the fields want us to walk upright.
Every man unimpeded but careful as when
you stand up in a small boat.
I remember a day in Africa on the banks of the Shari.
There were many boats, an atmosphere positively friendly,
the man almost blue black in color
with three parallel scars on each cheek
meaning the Sara tribe.
I am welcomed on the boat.
It's a canoe hollowed from a dark tree.
The canoe is incredibly rocky even when
you sit on your heels, a balancing act.
If you have the heart on the left side,
you have to lean a bit to the right,
nothing in the pockets, no big arm movements,
please all rhetoric must be left behind.
It's necessary, rhetoric would ruin everything here.
The canoe glides out over the water.
Thank you.
We can talk more in this cold reception.