Each day I cleanse myself of memory,
black words on white.
That is just what they are,
words hanging like beads of water
from my hair, or from a fishing rod,
or from a leaf.
I don’t know what force exists
behind these beads, or these words,
that allows them to describe more
than what is being described.
I don’t understand the laws,
or the transfer of images
across space and time.
Black on white, and I can
listen to you four hundred years ago.
Black on white, and you can see my soul.