I don’t know the half-light of woods
or the brief happiness of the trails,
the frugal, soft uncertainty of time that changes me.
But this, which isn't much, I know: you won’t know me.
You can weigh your gaze on mine, suspend
my skin, mirror the tone of voice
that burns in my throat, read the words I use
to tell the position of my body,
without being tired or lonely, my elbow
on the chair’s plastic arm, my legs bent,
my naked feet caressed by the cold breeze
of a delayed spring. But you won’t know me.
I can tell you about stolen figs on farms,
the drama of faces, ruggedness in voices,
a lantern in the night, a bicycle with-
out brakes. Or about a house as old as myself
and the sad paper flowers on the walls, the rain
lashing against the window panes, the family shopping,
the crossed out pages: you won’t know me. And the price
to pay is the highest price, for I won’t know
you. And I don’t mean sacrifices or other feelings, it's enough
for me the pulsating of my veins. I won’t know you.
Every day our paths cross but soon
enough we understand, as close tight
as day and night, that in each
of our paths, each one of us is lost.