I want to wake up from something like sleep—
something in which the events of sleep,
which move too fast to be seen, mingle freely
with the knowledge that I am not asleep—
and read a poem I remember reading somewhere
about a boy sleeping on a bus in Madrid,
on a bus going away from Madrid, actually,
out into the Spanish countryside at night,
countryside I've never seen, filled with night,
another country I've seen little of,
and write a poem no one understands,
that moves too fast to be understood,
that thinks understanding is a color
or an aromatic soap, that understanding
may be what the grass does all summer long
or light putting itself down slowly toward the end of day.
On the far side of the mountain, someone
is writing a sentence that has neither beginning,
middle nor end. He sits by the window and lets
the sun look over his shoulder. In the words
are the meanings of the words, but he prefers
to rub them together. That way, they murmur
things they would never understand, or need to.
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