within the confines of the soul,
all my elapsing gestures, transmigrate
into a silver bowl
language brimming over like snow
and that snow in the bowl
is language, is love,
is fearless choosing.

i said that i was born going away,
but the truth is, i was born
being left behind.  a teardrop falls
on the poem that i am writing,
i don't at once brush it away.  it spreads
on this measured line of indelible feeling,
falls on a poem by this poet far away
from your world, or any world,

whose most sophisticated wish is to walk
under a virtual tree with you,
recite poetry, carefully brush imaginary lint
from your lapel, and touch your hand
in a cold and desolate century. i remember
a small alley from childhood, leading to that
sea deep in my heart, a memory shining like
sunlight, so like a good poem, riding the wind,

flying over the sea and up the years,
to lodge inside my keyboard. i am trying to write
that naive and innocent poem,  that pure poem,
but my heart's not in it any more, not today
not any day, seeing that i must save humanity
from the excesses of my soul.  but a butterfly
lifts up from my page and tells me that i am translating,
only translating, standing on the deck of a boat

approaching towering waves, avoiding pirates,
and having to bear the sweat and tears
of a thousand poets before me.  better to be here,
than going to the supermarket, having to hear gossip
about the love affairs of other lives, better than dancing
at helsinki, under those measuring gazes, not knowing
which arrow is tipped with poison...

i have been standing
in the shade of a small tree for a long time,
watching love's last little remains--warm ashes--
rubbed on the virtual paper you've mailed to me.
please, let's try to make it to spring... the books
in my bookcase will firmly bite their lower lips,
as i endeavor to learn nothing new, because no death
was ever this depressing a departure.  but they say,

(and i will try to believe) that when fervent hope and trust
burn out, the real dark falls; and the soul's leaves
and branches begin to shine.  at this moment, in spite
of your doubts, i sense you, always close at hand;
and sometimes darkness is life's best compensation
ultimately, my stories are but a voice in exile
always emerging from behind, trying to catch up to you,
trying to say, in some obtuse way, by giving you all of myself
i love you.