I'd like to read three autobiographical poems, much
later ones.
A short one, I call Mysteries, 14 lines, not a sonnet.
At night, I do not know who I am when I dream,
when I am sleeping.
Awakened, I hold my breath and listen.
A thumbnail scratches the other side of the wall.
At midday, I enter a sun-lit room
to observe the lamp light on for no reason.
I should know by now that few octaves can be heard,
that the vision dies from being too long stared at, that
the whole of recorded history even is but a little gossip
in a great silence, that a magnesium flash cannot
illuminate for one single moment the invisible.
I do not complain.
I start with the visible and am startled by the visible.