176 You say you are an ordinary man. You lie. Your eyes Betray your hands in that attentive way you watch your fingers -- You look at them as if you are a pianist who is feeling The melody vibrating though his flesh before they touch The piano. Though you never play, the ordinary man. Your hands betray your eyes -- the restless way you hunt for seeing. You look at me as if you are a painter at his easel, And I emerge from colors in your painting. Though the paints And palettes are unknown to you, the ordinary man. You make me watch my hands. You make me see my seeing, painted Upon the linen of your days. You show me I am changing When touched by colors in your eyes and music in your flesh.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems