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I speak. What
is speaking? What have I
got to do with it?
Something is happening so
utterly mysterious. Air
passes, bearing
words. From where?
Sounds that somehow
have acquired a shape.
What was the
invisible hand that formed these
patterns in the air
and to what end? Where
was the end framed?
Is it from me?
Did I do this?
I speak and something happens,
something so
utterly mysterious
I step back and watch. I
watch. Which is to say
an image somehow
occurs somewhere but
did I do this?
Am I a 'subject' that
does such things
or rather
one that is done to?
a place where
something happens
like the blood
running through the veins,
a will - wanting
to speak or to watch - a lack
waiting to be filled?
Why, I wonder, did God build
such a shaky superstructure
on such a solid base?

Next poem - A poem that, I think, couldn't be translated into French